


A Songbird and its Broken Wings

by Akikofuma



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Marking, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskiers hands are broken, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Semi Canon-Compliant, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Torture, Violence, seriously this shit is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 43,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: After being sent on his way by Geralt, Jaskier gets picked up by Nilfgaardian Soldiers to find out where Geralt is. The Bard never thought his life could get worse after that particular heartbreak. He was wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 375
Kudos: 1013
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Loyalty & Pain

**Author's Note:**

> So. I havent written anything in forever, but now I watched the Witcher and this happened. Seriously, why is everything I write so fucking dark? I hope people can enjoy this anyway.

“ _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

Blinking his eyes against the tears gathering in then, Jaskier once more contemplated the memory that haunted him. The moment on that mountain when Geralt had spit his venom with his teeth bared, his face and hair still smudged with dirt and blood from the fight the bard himself had slept through. 

He’d though t , up until then, that he’d known true heartbreak. That after all the love and loss in his life, after all the partners he had been with and adored, and had eventually left to follow his Witcher, there was nothing that he couldn't’ handle in the regards of the heart.

He had been incredibly,  _stupidly_ , wrong. 

Nothing compared to  it , the mind-numbing pain in his chest; t he burn in his chest with every breathe he took. He’d have to write a ballad about it, put into words the shards that seemed to have lodged themselves into every part of his being. It would be tragic, would bring tears to the eyes of noblemen and women alike. He’d pour everything he had into his song and hopefully, maybe, he would be freed of the shards bit by bit. Could breathe easily once again. Could prove to Geralt that fate could, for once, give him exactly what he wanted. 

The rattling of the chains on his legs broke him from his thoughts. 

Ah, yes. He’d almost forgotten.

There would be no more ballads from him, not as things stood. Chained up in a dark, dank room, covered in his own shit and piss; mixing with the blood from his wounds, the vomit he’d spewed when the pain had become too much too bare. 

“ _Where’s the witcher?”_ They’d ask, and Jaskier would reply with a wheezed _“Fuck off.”_

Each time he did, they’d hurt him. Each time, he hoped it’d be the last. If his injuries wouldn’t kill him, surely an infection would. That’s if he didn’t starve to death first. 

Gods, he hoped death wasn’t far off. Wasn’t forced to endure any more of the torture, the vile words, the laughter when his tormentors came in to find him in another puddle of his own making. 

Moaning, the bard attempted to right himself, to at least sit up and face them in a less pathetic position. But his arms, covered in burns and open wounds wouldn’t hold his weight. His back, flayed open, caked in his dried blood, causing absolute  _agony_ , couldn’t support him long enough to stay upright. He’d wager he had a broken rib or two, judging by the  rippling stab any movement elicited. 

“A poor state you’re in bard.” He mumbled to himself, voice cracking and dying before he’d spoken the words. 

He had no idea how long he’d been in it, either. With no window or crack in the wall to see the sun, there was no way to judge how many days he’d spent like this. Time passed only in dark hours spent alone, and hours of pain at the hand of the Nilfgaardian soldiers. 

Heavy footsteps would alert him to their presence, and the door would open, and they would ask him once again. 

“ _Where is the witcher?”_

And even if he knew, even if Geralt hadn’t sent him away, hadn’t so thoroughly destroyed him; he liked to think he wouldn’t tell them. That he’d be strong,  _ strong like Geralt _ , and take the information into the grave.

Blood dripped from his legs as a cough shook his entire body, tormented his bruised and battered body further. Surely, this couldn’t go on for much longer. Surely, he’d be granted the reprieve of death soon.  _ Surely. _

The door creaked open. Jaskier flinched, squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden assault on them by the bright light of a torch, help by a tall man, dressed entirely in black armor. So different than Geralts own, but still enough to remind him of  the  Witcher, that was his no more. 

W ood scraped against cold stone, and when he finally opened his eyes again, a man was sitting beside him on a simple wooden stool, observing him.

“You’ve done rather well for yourself, bard.” The man said, words monotone and lacking any inflection. “No one expected you’d hold up to torture this well. Most of your kind are sniveling cowards; no use for anything but singing pretty songs and warming the beds of whoever they found willing that night.”

“Yes, well.” Jaskier replied, doing his best to muster some confidence, to sound cocky even when every spoken word was anguish. “I’m not like _most of my kind_. How wonderful of you to notice.”

His capture snorted, quirking a brow at his insolence. 

“Perhaps I should have anticipated that. No normal man would travel beside a Witcher for a decade, sing the praise of a mutant killer.” The man hummed to himself. “Especially if that Witcher has done nothing but shun and abuse you at ever turn. It makes me wonder if, perhaps, the pain is something you enjoy.” 

“What does it matter why I traveled with him, or why I sang his praises? I won’t tell you anything, not if you tortured me for another decade.” 

_ Please let me die before they have a chance.  _

“Indeed, I can see that now.” Came the even reply. “Yet as I was contemplating this, another question came to me. Why would a Witcher, a man easily capable of dispatching monsters and men alike, not dispose of a bothersome fly like yourself?”

The man stood, moved away from the bard, hands clasped behind his back as he turned to face a stone wall.

“It is true that your songs have earned him a good amount of coin and, ah, _goodwill_ from the people in need of his services. That does not explain why he was willing to keep you around him, for surely, a simple recounting of the tales would suffice for one of your little songs.” 

Jaskier laughed. Or he  _tried_ too. What came out was a wheeze and another rush of blood carried by the resulting cough. 

“You mean to imply.. You think he _cares_ for me?” He asked, once he could force himself to. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Perhaps.” The man nodded, once again turning to face him. “Or perhaps he has become.. accustomed to your presence. Mutants cannot feel affection, but it isn’t _impossible_ he formed some sort of attachment to you. And if that is the case, if you are somehow worth something to him, then it would stand to reason that if he knew of your imprisonment, he would come to save you.”

“As _enchanting_ a tale that would make, it wont happen.” 

_ I want it to happen. I want to be saved. I want to  **matter.** _

“Time will tell.” The man moved to the door, opened it, called another soldier in. “It’s said Witchers have an incredible sense of smell. That they are able to recognize a scent they are familiar with from miles against the wind, can smell the very _emotion_ in a mans scent. I don’t assume you’d be willing to confirm this, if you knew it to be true?”

Jaskier scoffed, steeled himself, knew exactly what was going to happen once he uttered the words.

“The only thing I’ll confirm is that you can all _go fuck yourself_.”

Not his best line, but it was all he had to offer.

“Hm, exactly the reaction I had expected.” The soldier sighed, nodded towards the man called into the room. “You’ve readied the letters?” 

“Yes Sir. Its right here.” Came the reply.

“Wonderful. Break the bards hands, then bleed him onto them. We’ll send the letters out to anyone we know the Witcher has dealt with. With some luck, he will be made aware of the situation soon.” 

They were going to break his hands. A sob ripped himself from Jaskiers throat, with no way to stop it. He’d had no real hope of escaping his imprisonment, and yet. Even if he did, even if by some miracle he’d be freed, what would he do without his  _hands_ , for surely they would not tend to him once the deed was done. Muscles and bone, tendons and nerves would be broken apart, torn to pieces within, would set and heal all  _wrong_ . He’d never play his lute again. 

“Just _kill_ me.” He finally begged as bile rose in his throat. “He won’t come for me, you won’t get your hands on him _ever_. Even if he receives your letter.”

“Oh, we will kill you, bard. Eventually. Once we are absolutely sure you are of no use to us.” 

The door fell shut again, the second soldier approached; Jaskier prayed to all the gods. 

_ Please just let me die. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, oof. This thing is just kinda flowing for me. What do you guys think?

„ _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!“_

He hadn‘t meant it,  _of course_ he hadn‘t. He’d just been angry, hurt, confused, upset. So many emotions he hadn’t dealt with, hadn’t needed to deal with for fucking years. 

And then it had all come crashing down on him. Yen was gone, surely for good, and he was once again left alone; watching someone he loved walk away. Someone he  _thought_ he needed. 

Jaskier had been a convenient target, an  _easy_ target, right there in front of him. For a decade or more he’d taken the verbal abuse Geralt bestowed upon him at every chance. He’d been hurt, he’d been enraged, but he’d always come  _back._

He hadn’t come back this time.

For months, he’d had other things to think about. He’d been hurt, and shortly after he’d found Ciri. He’d had to keep her safe, keep her from the grasp of the Nilfgaardians, had to ensure she didn’t die a premature death like Pavetta had. She was his responsibility, and it eclipsed anything else in his mind. He thought not of Yennefer, or Jaskier.  The only goal now to protect the Cub of Cintra. 

Kaer Morhen was the only safe place he could take her, and so, they made the long, laborous trek to the castle he called home. The road was treacherous under the best of circumstances, but with winter in full swing, it was even worse. They barely made it before the snow closed off the road to the ruins of the last Witcher School still standing.

Ciri was smart, and the spitting image of her mother. From the light blond hair to the stunning blue eyes, right down to the considerable power she seemed to hold.

“ _What will we do, once we get there?”_

Ciri had asked. Geralt hadn’t been able to give her a good answer.

“ _We’ll train you.”_

And they would. Vesemir was always at Kaer Morhen these days, and with winter upon them, there was a good chance Eskel and Lambert would be there as well. They could teach Ciri to wield a blade, a bow. They’d teach her to dodge attacks and use  an enemies momentum against them. 

But there was one thing he could not teach her, and that was what troubled him. Like her mother, Ciri had little control over her magic, her  _ gift _ , whatever you wanted to call it. It burst out of her like a snarling beast whenever she was angry, or upset. She’d told him about the time the boys she’d know from Cintra had found her. How she’d woken to their mangled bodies strewn about her, how she couldn’t remember what had happened. 

He needed someone that knew how to tame that sort of raw  _ chaos _ .

It was then that he had thought of Yennefer.

She was a powerful sorceress, a master of her craft. If anyone could teach Ciri how to control her magic, it was her.

The problem was that he had no way of actually  _ contacting  _ Yennefer. She had been very clear on how she felt about him, now that she’d learned of his last wish. That he’d tied them together, for the rest of their substantial lifespan, against her will. 

At Kaer Morhen, there were no sorceresses, no magic beyond that needed for the life of a Witcher. All he could hope for was that perhaps Vesemir knew of a way to track her down, or he would have to wait until spring, when the snow had melted, to track her down the old fashioned way.  Something he’d rather prefer avoiding, as it would surely take months on end to find the elusive witch. 

Fate, it seemed, had other plans for him once more.

They’d been at Kaer Morhen for barely a week when a portal opened in the middle of the dining hall, and out came the very person he’d meant to find.

“Geralt.” She quipped, ignoring the stares of the other Witchers, and for now, the little girl seated beside the white wolf.

“Yen.” He replied, as evenly as he could. It had been months since that faithful day on the mountain. He’d thought seeing her again would be like a flower feeling the rays of sunlight on its leafs for the first time after a long, hard winter.

Yet the only relief he felt was tied to what she could teach Ciri. His heart did not speed up, he didn’t long to hold her in his arms as he had before.

“I see the rumors are true.” Violet eyes flicked over to Ciri, lips quirked into a small smile. “I’ve heard whispers that you’d found your child surprise.”

“And who would those whispers have come from, exactly?”

“No one you’d know, I assure you.” Her manner was dismissive, as it had always been, but he did notice the way her eyes lingered on the girl. “They also heard that she is, ah, uniquely gifted.”

“I’m right here, you know. You can just talk me _directly_.” Ciri huffed, arms crossed over her chest. Only years of schooling his features kept the smile from Geralts face.

“My apologies, Princess.” The raven haired sorceress gave a little bow, more mocking than sincere, and Geralt wanted to growl at her, place herself between Ciri and Yen, only to be stopped as Yen continued. “But that’s not what brings me here today.”

“How’d you even know where to find them?” Vesemir rose from his seat, moving to stand beside their Lion cub. “And if you’re not here for the girl, why are you here?”

“I received a rather interesting letter. I thought Geralt might want to see. As for how I found him, a simple tracking spell told me all I needed to know.”

A piece of paper was pulled from an unseen pocket in her cloak, and the second it hit the air, Geralt caught its scent.

Blood. Anguish. Fear. Piss and shit and vomit.

And so faint he almost missed it, the scent of his bard.

He snatched the paper from her before anyone could say anything else, his heart rate increasing so quickly it _hurt._

_Dear Witcher,_

_its come to my attention you have something that does not belong to you._

_As you have surely already deduced, I own something that is yours._

_Return the Princess Cirilla to the closest Nilfgaardian camp, and your bard will go free._

_Do nothing, and your dear friend will be executed._

_We hope to welcome you, and the Princess soon._

_Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach_

Geralt couldnt remember the last time he’d hurled his guts out. He felt like he’d be reminded very soon what it was like.

“How long have you had this?” He ground out between clenched teeth.

“It was delivered to me earlier today.” He could feel her eyes on him, flickering across his face as he stared at the letter, at the blood that had been spilled onto it. What had they done to Jaskier? How badly was he hurt? The scent wafting off the paper suggested more, suggested _worse_ than imprisonment. “Once I read the content, I figured you’d want to know. After all, you were so _worried_ about him after the djinn incident.”

“You have to find where they are keeping him.” He growled, turning his eyes to the sorceress, willing his ever fastening heartbeat to slow. Surely Yen and Vesemir were able to pick up on his distress, could hear his heart race, could smell the stink of _fear_ on him. Any other situation, and the Witcher would no doubt have felt shame for his weakness; for showing his emotions to Yen, and to the man that was effectively his father. That had trained him to keep his emotions to myself. Emotions were nothing but trouble. 

“Oh, I _have to_ , yes?” Yen chuckled, quirking a slim brow at him. “Now why would I do that, after what you did to me?”

It was times like these that he wished he’d had the bards talent with words. To spin a tale about how Jaskier was innocent, and _good_ , and that saving him was important. Alas, words were simply not his strength.

“Please, Yen.” It was all he could manage, all he could offer, praying to the gods for the first time in decades that it would be enough.

Silence spread between them for a few moments, moments that felt like years to Geralt.

“It will cost you.” She huffed.

“I’ll pay you.” Geralt replied. “Whatever the price.”


	3. Death & Dignity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea how all of this is going to go from here on; this is as far as I had planned it to go. Hope you guys enjoy.

Pain.

Flaring from his hands, from every cell within them, burning its way across his nerves all the way his arm to his shoulders.

Even without seeing them, the bard could tell the damage done to them. His fingers felt misplaced, misaligned. Every twitch of them caused a fresh wave of agony. He groaned, trying once more to stretch his fingers, yet again in vain. It did nothing but to cause him more nausea, more fear.

Even if a healer saw him now, he doubted he’d ever regain full function. No more strumming of his lute, playing out complex melodies he’d come up with that only nobility wanted to hear. No more suggestive songs played in a tavern full of peasants looking for a way to forget their woes. His passion had been taken from him the moment the first bone broke.

_None of that matters, bard. The dead sing no songs._

Perhaps he’d have wondered why the snide remark came to him in Geralts voice, had he not been entirely too tired to think about it. 

Gods, he was  _so tired_ .

He wanted to close his eyes, to sleep, but his injuries allowed him no such comforts. Whenever he was about to doze off, to give into the pull of darkness, he’d move, or jerk, or tremble, and he was snapped back awake. There was no position he could find to alleviate his  agony . 

T hey given him water, but once again no food. The shreds of clothing left to him chafed against his skin, irritated the wounds close by. 

_ You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak. _

He should’ve known that very first day that Geralt of Rivia would be his fucking downfall. The man had been too beautiful, turned out to be too  _ noble _ , too  _ good _ to resist. Jaskier had never made good decisions in his life where love was concerned. He’d often joked that he fell in love with anyone he met; a lie, nothing else.

But gods, he had fallen in love with Geralt. 

The stubborn, infuriating, wonderful Witcher that protected the weak, the innocent. That gave away his last coin to help another, and was spit on it in return. That killed monsters for free, downing his toxic potions, working himself to exhaustion, even if he hadn’t eaten or rested in days.

For as much as the man liked to pretend that he did not feel, that he was the monster most saw him as, Jaskier knew better. 

Tears streaked along his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to will them away. It was pathetic, but he wished he could have seen Geralt just one more time. To see his yellow eyes, and the tangled mess of white hair that always looked like they’d never seen a comb.  To hear the rasp of his voice, even if it flung another insult his way. 

_ By melitele, you’re pathetic.  _

The voice in his head sneered, and he could only agree. He  _ was  _ pathetic. Geralt had smashed his heart to smithereens, had insulted him more times than he could count, and  _ still. _ A last look at that too perfect, too beautiful face was all he yearned for.

_ This is what you deserve. Its payback for all the trouble you caused. _

“I’m sorry.” He hiccuped, tears smearing over his face as he wept. “I’m so sorry Geralt.”

He’d never meant to hurt the Witcher. He’d meant to mend the obvious wounds he carried on his soul, let to fester of the decades of his life. Meant to soothe the pain, to lessen the burden. He’d accomplished the complete opposite. He’d made everything worse for Geralt, had caused him so much  _ hurt. _

He did deserve this. He deserved every minute, every excruciating second of misery his captors had inflicted on him. The white wolf he loved so much would have been better off without him ever interfering in his life. 

But he’d been stubborn, selfish, had wanted  _ so much _ to experience adventure in his life, and then, later, to be at Geralts side, he had dismissed the Witchers requests to  _ leave him the hell alone _ .

“I deserve this.” He muttered. “I deserve all of this.”

His eyes fluttered shut, more tears, salty and warm, spilling across his face. The pain was fading. Geralt had once told him that when wounds no longer hurt, it meant the body that sustained them was too weak to process pain. 

_ Finally _ , Jaskier thought, dragging in another ragged breathe.  _ Fucking finally. _

* * *

Loud bangs and screams woke him. 

He heard the sounds of metal swords crashing into each other, into wooden shields. He heard the clinking of armor, the shuffle of leather boots hitting the ground in a flurry. 

He felt cold, yet he did not shiver. His body felt heavy, but he felt no pain. His mind sluggish, thoughts to disjointed to recognize the meaning of all the noise. 

The door to his prison slammed open, and all he could do was cringe weakly. The light blinded him, rendered him even more helpless than he already was. He didn’t care. He was at death’s door, he was sure of it. Nothing would change that. Whatever they did to him now wouldn’t matter one bit. Too fatigued to keep his eyes open, he let them fall shut once more.

“ _Jaskier_!” 

And oh, he  _ knew _ that voice. Had yearned to hear it for so long, had dreamed about it every time he’d fallen asleep. 

“Stay with me, bard, stay with me.” The hallucination, for surely that was what it was, growled out. “Don’t you dare fucking die.” 

“’m sorry.” He slurred, trying and failing to open his eyes, to force his lids to lift and award him a look at the ghost his mind had conjured. “’s-so sorry.”

“No, Jaskier, don’t do this. _Stay awake!”_ Not-Geralt urged, but oh, he was _so drained._ Even uttering a single word cost him an impossible amount of effort.

“Tired.” He finally breathed out, and suddenly his body was being moved, lifted. His mind spun, his stomach lurched, and if there had been anything in it, he would have emptied it onto the ground once more. 

“Stay with me.” The voice called, suddenly sounding so far away; like they were miles apart. And hadn’t they always been, even as they walked beside each other? Close in body, but so far apart in mind and soul. 

_ A fitting end _ , he concluded. 

Another ragged breathe, and the world around him turned dark. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Uhm. Another chapter, I guess. Who knows, maybe I'll finish this much sooner than expected.

As it turned out, _finding_ Jaskier was not the problem.

With the blood on the letter, Yen had a surprisingly easy time finding the bard.

No, the problem would be getting Jaskier out of the camp safely, for the Nilfgaardians had settled in an abandoned stronghold, carefully guarded by soldiers day and night. Cahir had clearly expected Geralt to defy his orders. Knew the Witcher wouldn’t give up Ciri easily. Would try and recover his bard without handing her over.

It mattered not.

They’d moved from the dinner hall to the laboratory, once used to brew the potions for the Trial of the Glasses, far away from the curious ears of a certain princess.

If Geralt fell, he knew Vesemir would look after Ciri, and her training. She’d be safe at Kaer Morhen. He’d speak with Yennefer about training the cub in magic before he left. She’d always wanted a child, and perhaps she could be a mother to the princess, somehow.

“This is suicide.” Yen remarked calmly. “You may be a witcher, but you aren’t immortal. You cant cut down a small army on your own, Geralt. And by the smell of this letter, chances are your bard is already dead.”

“Hmm.”

“Ah, ever so verbose.” She taunted, heels clicking against the floor as she moved closer. “What is it about the bard that is _so_ important to you, hm? What makes him worth certain death? Because last I remember, you were quite fed up with him.”

Geralt gave no reply. 

_He never left. He stayed with me for so long. He was never afraid of me. He accepted me for who I am._

“Honestly Geralt, you cannot expect this to go well.” 

“I don’t.” He agreed, turning to pick up his swords. “Ciri will need you. She has no control over her chaos. I need you to teach her.” 

“I’ve just finished doing you one favor, and you’re already asking me for another? You must be _joking._ ” 

“Not joking.” He shook his head, turning to face Yen once more. Why, _why_ had he been so drawn to her? Yes, she was beautiful, powerful, she’d live as long as he did, perhaps longer. But none of that seemed to carry weight to him now. Now, all he could think of what Jaskier, laying in the dirt, beaten and wounded. “Was going to ask you anyway. Ciri needs someone to help and guide her. You’re the most powerful sorceress I know. It only makes sense.”

“And how do you think _she_ feels about you running off to your doom? Leaving her with strangers?” 

His motions faltered. 

Yen was right, as much as he despised it. Ciri would be hurt, angered by Geralt leaving her. But what else was he going to do? Leave Jaskier to die in some  shithole?

“I can’t let him die. I _can’t_.” His voice shook, his fists clenched. 

“So you rather you _both_ die?” 

“You don’t know he’s dead yet.” 

This conversation was making his head hurt. He had to leave,  _ now _ , had to get to the bard before- No. He wouldn’t think it, not until he held the cold body of the man in his arms. For now, he had to believe Jaskier was  _ hurt _ , but  _ alive. _

“Geralt, stop, just for a damn second.” 

“I can’t stop, Yen! I can’t stop, because if I _stop_ , he will _die_ , and it will be my fucking fault!” 

The words burst out of him before he could swallow them back down. It didnt matter,  _ nothing _ mattered but getting out of Kaer Morhen and  _ to _ Jaskier.

“Ah. So that’s what this is. You said something again, something you don’t want to be the last thing he heard you say.” Geralt already despised her tone. Despised what she was implying. Didn’t want it to be the truth. 

“I don’t have time for this.” Geralt made to push past her, only to be stopped by her hand on his arm a second later. “Fucking hells, Yen-”

“No. I’m not going to let you do this.” She snapped, eyes narrowed as she frowned at him. “Whatever you did to bind us together, whatever magic _pulls_ us together time and time again.. I wont let you kill yourself.” 

“Unless you have a better fucking idea, Yen-”

“I’m coming with you.”

* * *

In the end, with Yennefers help, it wasnt as bad as he had expected. An invisibility charm, and a well timed portal, and he’d found his way to the bard. Only when he had needed to reveal himself to grab the key off the guard had blood been shed. 

And then the door opened, and there Jaskier lay. 

He called out his name, eyes adjusting to the darkness in a split second. The bard didnt move. Geralt crouched down, tried to assess the injuries that scattered the mans body as quickly as he could. He pushed aside the horror at his state. His hands were broken, fingers crooked and swollen, some colored in a deep purple. He’d been badly beaten, the tissue of his face so inflamed he was barely recognizable as the man Geralt had left on that mountain. 

His back bore too many wounds to count; long, red lines from his shoulder blade to his hips. As if he’d been whipped. The bastards had  _ whipped _ him. 

But what was worse was the sounds of the bards breathing.

They were shallow, wet, like his lungs had filled with fluid. A quick flick of the eye to the bards lips confirmed his suspicion. They were stained with blood.

“Stay with me, bard, stay with me.” He breathed, moving towards the chains on Jaskiers legs, doing his best not to scream in frustration when he dropped the key in his haste to release him. 

“’m sorry.” The words could scarcely be heard, even with his Witcher hearing. Geralt movements became more distraught, his hands shaking as he finally freed the man he had so mistreated. “’s-so sorry.”

“No, Jaskier, don’t do this. _Stay awake!”_ He pleaded, turning the bard onto his back as gently as he could, placing his broken hands against the bards chest. Trying his best not to maim him any more than he already was.

“Tired.” Came the reply, scantily heard as Geralt finally lifted him, cradling him against his chest. 

“Stay with me.” He implored once more. 

_ Please stay with me.  _

Jaskier went slack in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More hurt Jaskier! Woop! I dont know why I like torturing him so much. I promise I'll make it up to him! - Eventually.

Warm.

The first thing Jaskier was aware of was the warmth surrounding him. This had to be the afterlife, didn’t it? He’d died in his prison, chained to the floor, covered in his own fluids.

“-his _hands_ -”

“\- _alive_ -” 

The voices weren’t what he had expected. Whenever he’d thought of the possibility of a life _after_ death, he’d figured it’d be more of a .. feeling, not an actual _place_ with other people that could _talk_. Not that the words he was catching, distorted and fragmented, made any sense to his sluggish mind.

He tried to shift his arms, the agony that radiated along his every nerve quickly halting any and all movement, drawing a weak groan from him.

Maybe not the afterlife then. But if he wasn’t dead, then where exactly…

“-Stop, Jaskier-”

“ _Don’t move-”_

He wouldn’t. Didn’t want to shift his body a single inch. Even now, when he willed himself to stay perfectly still, the pain didn’t stop. It dulled, somewhat, but it was still  _there_ . 

It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be alive, not after everything that had happened. He didn’t  _want_ to be alive. Even if he did, even if he  _somehow_ survived the torture and the starving, his hands had been broken beyond repair. What life could  h e possibly have, a bard that couldn’t play his lute? 

Sleep tugged at his mind, heavy, all consuming.

Suddenly, panic set in.

If he fell asleep, he wouldn’t find out where he was, or what was going to happen next. For all he knew, this could be another ploy to tease information out of him.  What if he’d been drugged, what if all of this, the warmth, and hearing Geralt before he’d passed out was  _all_ in his mind? 

And gods, what if he  _did_ give something away? What if, in a few hours, when he woke again, warm and hearing the man he loved, he’d answer whatever question he was asked? 

He couldn’t let it happen.

He needed to fight through the haze. Needed to open his eyes. To show them that even when he was high out of his mind, he knew what was real. Geralt  _wasn’t_ here with him. He  _hadn’t_ been saved. 

None of it was real.

* * *

  
  
  
Bringing Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen, Geralt thought, would lessen his anxiety.

He’d be safe there. They could heal his wounds, keep him warm and fed. Geralt could sit at his bedside as Yen worked her magic, and once she was done, he could tend to what was left. Change the bandages his bard would no doubt be covered in. Applying salve to the infected cuts until they faded and healed over. Things would be alright.

As it turned out, it made everything infinately worse. In the light of a single torch, the bard had looked to be in awful shape. Now, placed on a bed with clean, white linens in the day of light, it was disastrous.

Caked in all manner of bodily fluids, some dried and some fresh, cut upon, with broken bones and wet coughs accompanied by a spray of blood on deathly pale lips, Geralt was sure his bard was going to die.

Not even Yen, as powerful and strong-willed as she was, could possibly reverse so much substantial damage.

It was all his fault. He never should have sent Jaskier away. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, if he hadn’t treated him like  he always had- which came nowhere close to the truth of how he really  _felt_ about the bard- none of this would have come to pass.

“Geralt, stop just standing there and _help_ me!” The sorceress hissed, pulling the shreds of clothing off the tortured body before them. “This is worse than I had expected. Much worse. Gods, how is he still _alive_?”

“Don’t.” Geralt growled, ripping off the last remains of what had once been silken doublets and neatly tailored trousers. “Just _help_.”

“I’ll try, but Geralt, honestly.. _Look_ at him. He’s malnourished, there’s blood in his lungs, probably from the broken ribs poking into them; he’s covered in open wounds- which are _all_ infected by the way- and even if I could undo all this trauma, look at his _hands_. They’d never be like they used to be.” 

“Just keep him _alive._ ” And just as he’d finished his sentence, the bard move; well, more like _twitched_ and gave a weak groan, struggling against the binds that no longer held him.

“You’re alright now, Jaskier, you’re safe.” Geralt tried to sooth, wanting nothing more than to _hold_ , but to afraid he’d cause more injury. “Stop, Jaskier, I promise you you’re safe now.”

“ _Don’t move_ , fuck Geralt, he needs to keep _still._ ” Yen snapped, hovering her hands above the bard.

“What do you want me to do, hold him down?” Geralt counterd, further distressed by Jaskiers continued, pathetic attempts to shift his form on the bed.

“I don’t care _what_ you do, just get him to _stop moving_. This is going to be hard enough as it is, without him ripping open what I just fucking fixed!”

With a grinding of his teeth, Geralt cast Axii.

“Sleep, my bard.”

* * *

Hours passed.

Geralt had been gently cleaning Jaskier while moving him as little as possible, Yen’s casting only stopping when the bard needed to be maneuvered onto his side to get at his back, his legs.

Hours Geralt spent fearing for his bards life, and not allowing himself to dwell on the sudden, raw possessiveness he felt towards the man, nor the rage he  felt for the men that had caused this that simmer dangerously right below his skin. He pushed aside the all consuming trepidation that he’d in fact come to Jaskiers aid too late. 

Once the bard was clean, Yen handed him a salve she’d seemingly produced from thin air, and instructed him to lather his wounds and bandage them. while she broke off her casting to regain some of her strength. Every touch caused a whimper, a tremor, a million signs of pain and discomfort. Each sound causing the Witchers heart to skip, made his stomach lurch, bile burning the back of his throat as he swallowed it down. He wouldn’t stop until he was sure he’d done everything he could.

Yen returned to her casting once he’d completed his appointed task.

“His hands are going to be the hardest to mend. And before I can get started, I need them to be put back the way they belong.” She glanced at Geralt as he tensed. “You don’t need to be here for that. I can do it. Its not going to be pleasant.”

“None of this has been fucking _pleasant.”_ He retorted quietly. “What do you need me to do?”

“Hold his arms. Don’t let go, no matter what. I’ll set the bones, and then I’ll _try_ and mend the tendons and sinews the best I can.” Yen sighed, running a hand through raven locks, the sent of lilac and gooseberries he’d come to associate with her permeating through the air. “Even unconscious, this is going to hurt.”

All he could do was not, kneel beside the bed at the bards head, who was currently resting on his side, covered in bandages from neck to toes. He held his arms, one laid on the soft mattress, the other partially on the first, partially on the bed, both hands close to his head.

“Do it.”

With a sickening  _pop pop pop_ the bones began to straighten. With every  _pop_ another sound of pain, each louder than before. Jaskier struggled, despite his fatigue, despite everything that had been bestowed upon him in the last.. Gods, Geralt didn’t even know  _how long_ they’d help him captive. Weeks, by the state he was in, if an estimation had to be made. Likely more. 

_Pop pop pop._

Another finger set. Another step taken towards allowing his- his  _ something _ , to play his lute again. For it had become clear as day to him that Jaskier was far more to him than just a friend.

He prayed he’d be allowed to gauge what exactly he had become to Geralt.

Prayed Jaskier wouldn’t wake up and grown to hate him.

Prayed Jaskier would wake up at all.

* * *

“Its done.” Yen sighed, after yet more time spent in silence, more drained than Geralt had ever seen her. She sway where she stood, and he left the bards side only long enough to retrieve a chair she could sit on before returning, kneeling beside him, tenderly running his fingertips over chestnut brown hair.

“He’ll play again?” He asked, brushing his thumb over a painfully swollen cheek. 

“Maybe. They were thorough. Didn’t leave a single bone unbroken. We’ll know more if he makes it until the morning.” She huffed, eyes once again narrowed as she took him in. “ _You’re welcome_ , by the way.”

“Thank you, Yen.” As irritated as he was with the witch, he did owe her thanks. A life debt twice over, after all, she’d already saved the minstrels life once before. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, for now.” She stood, carefully, moving to the door of Geralts room. “You’re in no state to do anything for me. Stay with him. I’ll send Vesemir to you with some draughts, once I’ve rested. We’ll talk about compensation once we know If he lives.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this chapter was less about Jas and way more about Geralt, but I felt like he and Ciri needed some time together.

Jaskier did, in fact, survive the night.

Geralt sat at this side, refusing to leave even to wash the blood from his face and hands when Vesemir offered to watch the minstrel for him. Whatever else he had to attend to, it would wait til the sun rose.

The witcher was on high alert, every cough and twitch from the man resting before him causing him to flinch, every whimper pulling at his heart, at his mind.

He’d never be able to forgive himself for this. For sending away the one person that had consistently showed him kindness, had tried to soothe him when he _thought_ his heart was broken.

Losing Yen that day, likely for good, had no doubt hurt. At the time he’d truly believed she was somehow meant for him, and he for her. Having her turn his back on him had been an intensely unpleasant experience.

Yet just the thought of losing _Jaskier_ was _so much worse._

How he had been able to deny himself the bards importance for so long, he honestly could not explain. He’d been so willing to embrace his feelings for Yen once they appeared, going so far as to actually walk back into a crumbling house to face a pissed off djinn; yet he’d never given thought to his feelings concerning the man that had tirelessly followed him along the path, and praised him to anyone willing to listen.

Perhaps this was punishment, he thought, another way for Destiny to cruelly remind him that no matter how hard he fought, he’d never escape it.

The only thing he could hope for now, was that this realization hadn’t come too late. That he’d be able to look the bard in the eye and _somehow_ communicate how much he cared for him.

He had no illusions that his affection would be returned; for one, he still wasn’t sure how deep his own affections ran, and secondly, because he was to be blamed for every mark that graced Jaskiers skin. Every lash of the whip, every broken bone, all of it had only occurred because  _Geralt_ had sent him away. 

How could anyone forgive this much hurt?

Vesemir appeared once more when the first rays of sunlight peeked over the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen, carrying the potions Yen had promised him.

“Said to give him one now, the next at noon.” He gruffed, handing the bottles to Geralt. “Gonna give his body some strength, since he won’t be eatin’ anytime soon.”

The Witcher nodded his thanks, didn’t trust his voice to remain steady as he thought about the weeks of recovery Jaskier would have to go through before he was once again made whole.  _If_ he could be made whole again. His eyes drifted to the minstrels bandaged hands, and once more he was forced to swallow down the acid his stomach wanted him so urgently to expel.  There was enough time for Geralt to torture himself later.

For now, he needed to find a way to get the elixir _into_ his bard without disturbing him too much, or accidentally choking him. In the end, he decided he’d have to very carefully sit the man up, lean the bards shoulder against his chest to avoid putting pressure on his back, and slowly administer the brew that would help him recover.

Under Vesemirs watchful eyes, he set the potion down, moving to sit beside the injured man. Gods, but it was hard to lay his hands on Jaskier; so afeared that he’d hurt him. What if he gripped him too hard, or not hard enough, and Jaskier would slip from his hands, fall to the floor..

“Let me help.” The older wolf finally cut in, after minutes of watching Geralt simply stare. “I’ll hold him up, and you can give him the damn potion. _Don’t_ argue with me boy, I wont hurt him. Handled enough injured in my time. And once this is done, you’re going to clean the muck out of your hair. You’ll scare the poor boy.” 

Geralt didn’t have it in him to disagree.

* * *

Yen was waiting for him when he returned, carefully going over the broken body in front of her.

“He lived.” She muttered.

“He’s stronger than we gave him credit for.” Geralt grunted, immediately resuming his position at Jaskiers side.

“Have you eaten? Or, I don’t know, _slept?_ ”

“Witchers don’t need as much sleep as humans.” He didn’t have to see Yens face to know she was rolling her eyes at him.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t need _any_ sleep. Seriously Geralt, he’s most likely going to sleep for a lot longer. And Ciri asked about you before I came here.”

Right. Ciri. Fuck.

“Eskel arrived in the night, too.” She went on. “I know he’s a dick but I’m sure if you asked him, he’d-”

“ _No._ ” He hadn’t meant to growl it out like that, more beast than man, but he simply _couldn’t_ control himself. And as much as he loved his brother, as much as he trusted him, the thought of anyone _but him_ sitting at the bards side.. it wasn’t going to happen.

“You’ve always been a stubborn ass, you know that?” She pulled up the chair he’d fetched for her before and sat to face him. “I found it charming, at times, but _this_ isn’t one of those times. You can’t help him if you run yourself into the ground.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Ah yes, always so good with words.” She mocked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “You can’t grunt your way out of this, dear Witcher. If you insist on being with him as much as physically possible, you’ll have to find a better way than depriving yourself of food and sleep.”

“I’ll roll out my bedroll next to him.” 

“What about food? And Ciri? You can’t just _sit_ here for what will very likely be _weeks_.” 

Weeks. _Weeks_ before Jaskier could leave this room, _this bed_.

He reached out, feathered his thumb across the bards cheek.

“He’s warm.” Too warm. Geralt turned to Yen, alarmed.

“Of course he’s warm, he’s under _two_ quilts.” She retorted, quirked her brow at him.

“ _No_ , Yen, he’s running a fever. Touch his forehead.”

The sorceress moved forward, carefully placing her hand on Jaskiers forehead under the watchful eyes of the white wolf. He watched her frown.

“..He does seem a bit warm.” She finally conceded. “You gave him the potion?”

“Of course I did.” He grunted, shifting only far enough away to allow the witch access to her patient.

“Its likely the infections. We need to change the bandages out soon anyway. We’ll do it now, together. Apply more salve, I’ll brew him another potion. A fever is normal, Geralt, you can stop looking at him like he’s back at deaths door.”

“Fevers can get worse.” He insisted, pushing himself further up the bed again once Yen had leaned back. “Infections can kill a human easily.”

“We’re not going to let that happen.”

Her words of comfort fell onto deaf earths.

* * *

“Geralt?”

The timid voice calling out to him broke him from his grim thoughts.

“Ciri.”

“Can I come in?”

The Witcher took a deep breathe in, willing away the surge of _wrong_ he felt. Ciri wasn’t a danger to Jaskier. He knew that. He trusted her.

“Yes.”

She moved forwards, softly closing the door behind her. It warmed his heart, how thoughtful the little cub was, after all she’d been through. Years ago, he had regretted the evening that would eventually lead Ciri to him. And now, he only regretted how their paths had finally crossed.

She’d lost everything, in a single night. Her grandmother, her home, her friends. Everything she’d ever known had vanished right before her. And still, she had retained her heart of gold.

“Who’s that?” She asked, moving towards Jaskier, curious blue eyes wandering over his bruised face. “..Is he alright?”

“He’s… a friend.” It was the best Geralt could offer. “He’ll be alright. With time.”

“What happened to him?” She asked, claiming Yens chair as her own, though her feet couldn’t touch the ground. “Is that where you went with Yen? To save him?”

“Yes.” Geralt had never been around children much, aside of his own time as a child here, in Kaer Morhen. He couldn’t remember being this inquisitive, asking _question_ after question. Questions he sometimes- actually, quite often- didn’t have good, or _any_ answers for. And quite often, when he did, it wasn’t an answer he wanted to give.

“He ran afoul of some soldiers.” He finally settled on. Not the entire truth, but not a lie, either. “Yen is helping him.”

The blond child nodded, once more letting her gaze wonder over him. They sat in silence, both watching the minstrels breathing.

“I talked to Yen.” She said. “She said you wanted her to help me, too. Train me to control this gift.”

“Hmm.” He sighed, running a hand across his face. “Hadn’t really talked to her about it yet. Not as much as I wanted to.”

“But you think she could? So that I won’t-” She cut off, white little teeth digging into her lower lip. “So I won’t hurt anyone anymore? Unless I have to?”

Geralt blinked. The moment felt fragile, tender; unsuitable for the hands of a man that had known little but killing for most of his life. He found himself wishing that Jaskier was awake; he’d know how to handle this. But Jaskier was in no condition to help. He’d have to do this on his own.

“She could.” So far, so good. “Does that- Are you.. _worried_ about hurting someone here? On accident?”

“Sometimes.” The cub softly admitted. “I don’t want to hurt you, or Vesemir. I don’t want to hurt _anyone_. But sometimes it just.. it _happens_.”

“We’re not human, Ciri. Its much harder to hurt a Witcher. Yen, too. You won’t hurt us. You can’t.”

“Promise?” She whispered, looking up at him with watery blue eyes. “Promise I won’t get mad and- and make the walls crumble, or the roof fall down on you?”

“Might make the roof fall down.” He conceded. “It won’t kill us. I promise.”

Ciri regarded him for a moment, nodded her head. And then, quite suddenly, she had her arms around his shoulder, holding tight. 

“Thank you, Geralt. For everything.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, Jaskier gets to wake up. At least a little bit.

Light.

There was light again, shining through his eyelids. Warming his skin.

He wanted to see. Wanted to _see_ the light, even if it was only in his mind. Even if it was fake. Just one more time, he wanted to pretend that the rays of the sun were gently kissing at him, caressing his skin, like when he had been a boy; resting on the grass outside his home on a beautiful summers day.

It took less strain to open his eyes than he remembered. But then, maybe he wasn’t opening them at.

“..Jaskier?” 

The bards eyes fluttered open, and there he was. Geralt. Hovering over him, usual blank expression gracing his features, only for the emotion in his eyes to betray him. 

“..ralt.” He croaked, swallowing, cringing at the sound of his own voice. He tried again. “ _Geralt_..”

“I’m here.” The Witcher assured, placing his large hand on his shoulder. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

“Thirsty.” He wheezed, not trusting himself to form sentences just yet. A curt nod and Geralt moved away; he didn’t want him to leave. When he tried to reach out, a much smaller, softer hand stopped him.

“He’ll be right back, I promise.” The sweet voice said. “He’s just getting you water. He’ll come back.” 

Jaskier could do nothing but trust she told the truth. Even turning his head to face her seemed impossible. 

All of it was. It was  _fucking impossible._ This couldn’t be real. But if this was all in his head, why would he make up the  soft touch of what had to be a child, make up a voice he had never heard before? He examined as much of the room as was possible without moving. Stone walls. A single shelf and desk, filled with books and scrolls and trinkets. If he glanced to the right, a few strands of pale blond hair, a shade he had only ever seen on a single person. A person he  _knew_ to be dead.

Was it a dream after all? 

“Move, Ciri. Careful, don’t agitate the wound.” Melitele, he would recognize that voice anywhere. The rough, gravely almost-growl that always made his stomach clench in the most pleasurable way. 

His head was lifted, ever so slightly, a cup pressed to his chapped lips. Greedily he drank, only to have the cup taken from him far too soon. He was  _thirsty_ , he wanted  _more_ , his throat was parched and ached from the whine he gave when he was denied.

“Be calm, now.” The Witcher huffed, a calloused thumb brushing against his cheek. “Make yourself sick if you drink too much.”

This couldn’t be Geralt. The white wolf would never be so gentle with him. Would never reprimand him so sweetly. He barked orders and threw snarled insults at him. Never had he been this..  _caring_ . He was dreaming. 

Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he let them fall; there was no one here to see them. He was alone, in the dungeon, waiting to die. 

“Hush now, little lark.” He heard, that same calloused thumb brushing away the salty-hot tears marking his skin. “No one will hurt you ever again.”

Jaskier fell back asleep.

* * *

The second time he opened his eyes, he felt- well, he felt  _better_ .

The pain was still bad, shifting any part of himself still  _hurt_ , but it was no longer the agony he had experienced for so very long. 

“Jaskier.” Again, Geralt called his name. The bard didn’t reply, words catching in his throat. He heard foot steps, and then, a cup pressed against his lips, just as before. 

He drank more slowly. Corn blue eyes flicked downward, towards the hand holding the cup. Pale skin, with a small scar on the third knuckle. Another scar on the pad of the thumb. A hand he knew, had fantasized about touching him a million times over.

He felt fear.

Fear that if he dared to gaze upon the face he’d been wishing to see since this nightmare started, would vanish into thin air. He didn’t protest when the liquid was taken away. Didn’t move, or make a sound. Continued to watch as work roughened fingers brushed across his arm. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, Jaskier.” Words once more spoken so softly, he could not reconcile their tone with the hard man he had know. Couldn’t fathom being on the receiving end of the Witchers tenderness. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

“Not afraid.. to hurt.” He forced out, each word harder to pronounce than the last, and still needing to be said. “Afraid. All just.. a dream.”

A sharp intake of breath, and suddenly, yellow eyes were staring into his. Eyes he’d learned to read over a decade. That he’d fallen in love with the first time they’d been turned to face him. 

“Its not a dream Jasker, _little lark_ , I’m here. I’m by your side. Whenever you wake, and open your eyes, _I will be here._ ”

That sounded pleasant. 

Waking up and always finding Geralt there, right beside him. 

Right where he’d wanted to be for years.

He let his eyes fall shut and sleep take him.

* * *

His hands hurt.

The pain the first sensation he became aware of as, once more, he awoke. 

He was still in a soft bed. Still covered by soft blankets. Another night without being woken by men to be tortured. Peace.

“Good morning, bard.” 

That voice did not belong to Geralt. It belonged to someone he had despised for as long as he’d known them; someone he’d never wanted to see again in his life. 

Yennefer.

His eyes flew open and were soon staring into violet ones. Ah yes. He’d never be able to forget them. He searched the room, looking for Geralt. He’d  _promised_ he’d be here, so where-?

“He’ll be back in just a minute.” The damn witch was reading his mind again. “He smelled of a month of dirt and sweat; I had to bribe him into the bath. He was insistent about not leaving your bed, but I do not enjoy working next to a man with the scent of a barn.”

Wretched woman.

“Now now, that isn’t how you talk to the woman that saved your life now, is it?” 

“Wasn’t. Talking.” He ground out. 

“You know exactly what I meant, little lark.” The petname was uttered with such derisive tone, Jaskier was half surprised it hadn’t physically hurt. Or perhaps, he simply could not feel any more of it than he already was. 

“Don’t call him that.” 

_Geralt._

He hadn’t left. Hadn’t been abandoned again. His white wolf was still here. 

“I’m sorry dear, I didn’t _realize_ that it was reserved for you.” 

God, he truly hated her. Hated how she spoke to Geralt, how she treated him. How she promised the Witcher comfort and left him more broken than he had before each time. She’d never treated him the way he deserved, had never  _cherished_ him like Jaskier had. Cast away the chance to be with a wonderful,  _noble_ man that he himself would have worshiped every single day, every  _second_ he was granted. 

He’d seen the look in golden eyes whenever she talked to him that way, and on instinct along his arm shot out, wanting to grab, to hold on to Geralt. To comfort and reassure. 

Pure agony shot up his entire arm, and he sobbed with it, wanting to stop and to  _keep going._

“Jas, _stop.”_ Geralt caught his wrist, squeezing ever so slightly. Jaskier relented.

“Oh how _sweet_.” Crooned the sorcerers. “He’s worked himself up. Trying to protect the big, bad wolf himself. Make sure he doesn’t undue any of the hard work I’ve done, Geralt.”

T he sharp click of heels, and a door was shut. She was gone. 

_ Thank the gods. _

“Water?” Geralt inquired, and _yes_ , water sounded amazing. He was always so thirsty these days.

I t felt like a ritual by now, the press of cold ceramic against his lips, a few sips of water before it was removed. But this time, after a few moments, he was allowed a bit more. 

“Vesemir is making soup for you. Yen says its too soon to try solid foods.” A pause, and then. “You- Your body was.. It was bad.”

Jaskier managed the smallest of smiles. How long had it been since he’d heard Geralt trying, rather endearingly, to communicate? It felt like years,  _decades_ wasting away in a dark room with only his demons as company. 

The thought startled him, sparked a fear deep down in his stomach, spreading through him like wildfire. How they’d beaten him, how they’d demeaned him, cut him, broke him,  _twisted_ his body-

“Never told-” He coughed, he couldn’t talk, he _needed_ to talk, Geralt had to _know_. “Told them. Anything. I never- _not_ _anything!”_

“Jaskier, calm down, _calm down_!”

He wanted to, he  _really did_ , but his heart hammered against his ribs, his chest felt tight, too small to allow his lungs to inflate with enough air to keep him alive.

_ This is it _ . He thought, as the breathe was pushed out of him, no matter how quickly he inhaled, how fast the tried to replace it. His mind was going fuzzy again, but at least he’d been allowed to  _ tell  _ Geralt he’d been loyal to him, hadn’t deceived him,  _ hadn’t caused any more harm- _

“ _Axii_. Rest now, Jaskier. Rest.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is gonna be an emotional rollarcoaster chapter. You've been warned.

“ _Axii. Rest now, Jaskier. Rest.”_

Geralt hated Axii. 

It was useful, sure. But to bend the mind of a beast, or another person, it had always felt-  _more complicated_ than using any other sign. 

Using it with Jaskier felt even worse. He never wanted to force his bard to do anything, anything at all. But Jaskier had been so visibly upset, shaking and  _gasping_ for breathe.

Reeking of fear so strongly, it had taken all of the Witchers restraint not to leap forward and wrap his songbird in his arms. Cradle him against his chest, rock him like a child; whispering promises like: _I’ll keep you safe. You’ll_ never _be more loved by anyone than me. No one will hurt you, ever again, not even myself._

The minstrels body was still too weak, still too fragile to be shifted or held in any way. Alas, there had been no other way. 

Sighing heavily, Geralt moved back to sit on the bed, doing his best to convey closeness without touching,  hoping that somehow,  _somehow_ he’d help his bard have better dreams.

“Smells like fear in here.”

“Hmm.” Eskel moved closer, holding out two bowls of soup. “Think he’ll wake up again before it goes cold?” 

“No.” He didn’t feel like talking. Well, he never _really_ felt like it to begin with. Most humans didn’t want to converse with a Witcher anyway; the only one that had ever approached him openly was the bard before him. Generally, he didn’t mind talking with the men he considered his brothers, when they all retreated to their home during the winter. 

With the scent of fear still lingering in the air, his skin still tingling with the urge to achieve-  _anything_ to help his bard- No, talking wasn’t on the list of things he wanted right now. 

“Eat yours, ‘least.” Eskel grunted, shoving the bowl into his hands. “Vesemir left the chicken and vegetables in yours.” 

“I’m not hungry.” He huffed, glancing at the bowl now gracing his hands. 

“Just eat your damn food.” 

Geralt glared at him, huffed, and after a few moments of stubborn refusal-

He ate his damn food. 

* * *

Another day, another change of bandages. Geralt hadn’t left the room for longer than he needed to relieve himself, and when Yen insisted he needed another bath.

Spent every waking, and sleeping, hour at his bards side. 

Jaskier had yet to wake up again, and all the Witcher could do was gently apply salve and administer potions, and murmur soothing platitudes to him when he thought his lark was having bad dreams. 

One bandage at a time, one body part at a time, he removed the old bandages; softly cleaned the wounds, applied the salve, only to re-wrap them. Over and over. 

The hands were the worst. 

Broken fingers were mending,  _slowly_ , skin discolored; and still oh so tender. Every twitch made Jaskiers brow furrow, pulled forth a moan of anguish. 

It was his least favorite part of the routine. 

He’d just began unwrapping the second hand when suddenly, that very hand twitched.

“They look-” 

Geralts head snapped upwards, blue eyes wide as they caught his own. 

“They look bad.” Jaskier rasped. The bards gaze flickers back to his hand, fingers twitching once again, followed by a raspy groan. 

Water.

Geralt jumped to his feet, pushed over the still-full bowl of soup meant for the bard,  almost tripping over it in his haste to get to the pitcher of water on his desk.

“ _Geralt_.” 

“Here, I’m here.” He soothed, gently encouraging Jaskier to take a few sips, and then a break. A few more sips, and it was placed aside. His songbird played along, let the Witcher decide how much to take and when to stop. All the time staring at him like he was an apparition, like a single snap of the finger, and Geralt would be gone. 

“My hands.” Jaskier finally said, his voice coarse after weeks of not being used. “How- How bad-?”

He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to tell the man what Yen had told him, only a day ago.

_ They’re healing fine, for the damage that was done. He’ll be able to use them for normal things. Feed himself, clothe himself. Don’t look at me like that, Geralt. I can’t tell you if he’ll play again anytime soon. There’s more healing to be done. _

“Shouldn’t worry about them yet.” He finally said. Praying that for once, Jaskier wouldn’t read between the lines. Wouldn’t instinctively know what he was _actually_ saying. 

“That bad, huh?” 

_ Fuck _ .

“Yen says they’re still healing. That it’ll take _time_ before-”

“Before we know if I can ever pick up my lute again.” 

_ Gods damn it. _

“Yes.” Geralt finally conceded. 

“Can you sit me up, please? My side is sore.” 

Geralt stood, placed a hand beneath his bards head, beneath his chest, ever so slowly inching him onto his back. Every twitch made him halt, every groan made his heart seize up and skip a beat. 

“Almost there.” Trying so hard to alleviate any discomfort he may be causing. After a small eternity that were most likely only moments, Jaskier laid on his back. Eyes searching the Witchers face, though Geralt didn’t know what he was looking for. “..Better?”

“Much.”

Geralt was at a loss of words. What was he supposed to  _ do _ now? How could he comfort the minstrel, how did he convey what he  _ wanted _ to say, without a chance of them being misunderstood? 

“You saved me.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier reached out, causing Geralt to move forwards, without a single thought. Enveloping the injured hand being offered to him, trying to hold it in his own tenderly as he could. “You saved me. I didn’t think- After the mountain, I-.” 

“Don’t.” The Witcher had to nip this in the bud, _that_ much he knew at least. “On the mountain, I was- _wrong_. The things I said, I didn’t... mean.”

W hy the  _fuck_ did this have to be  _so hard_ ? He was a grown fucking man, a  _Witcher_ . He could say the things he wanted to say.

“Jaskier.” A deep breathe in, and a slow release. He couldn’t remember apologizing to anyone in so many years, but for Jaskier, for his little songbird he _could_ do it-

“Geralt, you don’t have to do this.” A second bandaged hand came to rest on his. “I understand. You’ve always beaten yourself up over everything. You’re a _good man_.”

_ I’m not. I did this. I  _ caused _ this. _

“You saved my life. You fought for me. You brought me to the _very_ scary witch again to help me, _again_. I’m sure that cost you.” 

_ No cost would be too much to pay to save you. None at all. _

“But you don’t have to do _this_. You don’t have to make me feel better, just because of what happened.” 

“That isn’t-” He tried to cut in, only to be stopped by the stroking of bruised fingertips against his knuckles. 

“You’ve done more for me than anyone else ever has.” And there it was again, the scent of fear, and tears, and something he couldn’t quite place. Something that felt colossal, _enormous_ , and left Geralt feeling even more unease. 

“You don’t have to do any more. I forgive you.” He swallowed. “Listen to me, Geralt. Look at me.”

He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to face the bards unending compassion and empathy. Didn’t  _deserve_ any of it. 

He’d face it all the same.

And there it was, that smile he hadn’t known he missed while they were apart. Even with his skin broken, pulling tight across his lips, that  _smile._ Warm like the sun, gentle like a springs breeze, perfect like the first snowfall in winter.

“I. _Forgive_. You.” The minstrel repeated, ever so sweetly. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Hmm.”

“But I think- I think you should go.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING. Guys, this chapter is pretty deep, and it deals with suicidal thoughts and general, pretty fucking bad, depression. Just wanted to let you know.

“ _But I think- I think you should go.”_

Jaskier hated himself for saying it, despite knowing that he _had_ to. The hurt on his Witchers face was clear as day, the smallest twitch of his brow, the downward curl of his lips the bard could only recognize for hurt after all these years- It all broke his heart.

_Its whats best for him._ He told himself, swallowing around the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly to push back the tears threatening to form. 

_He’d stay here until the end of his days because of his guilt. He doesn’t want this. Never wanted this._

For truth be told, what was Geralt going to accomplish for himself, sitting next to a bard that would likely never play a jig or ballad or _any_ song ever again? He wouldn’t be able to earn them more coin, or charm the inkeep into a free dinner; couldn’t sing the praises he so desperately wanted to.

“You forgave me.” Geralt broke the silence, his hands still enveloping Jaskiers injured one ever so sweetly. “But. Now you’re sending me away.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, and yet, he knew that it was. Had come to know the white wolf better than he knew anyone else; though it still felt like he knew  _nothing at all._

“You’ve done what you set out to do. You saved me, and you got me help. Geralt, what good would it do for you to sit with me now?” 

_Please see reason. Please understand that I’m not worth anything more. Not now. Not anymore._

“Winter is coming up, you- you should be getting ready to go back to Kaer Morhen, to go back _home._ Kill a few monsters on the way, fill your coin pouch for more supplies to take.”

Geralts expression turned complicated. So many emotions flashing across those beautiful features, each one causing another crack in the minstrels heart. He wanted to make it better, wanted to take all that confusion and hurt and absorb it into himself. 

His white wolf deserved so much more than he could offer. 

“I’ll be fine now, I’ll recover. You paid Yen to look after me, right?” He barreled on, willing his voice to remain calm, hoping to alleviate whatever burden Geralt seemed to carry. “I mean, she’s scary, but I’m sure she’ll keep her end of the deal; well, I’m _pretty_ sure- Gods Geralt, I’m a _mess_ , how much did you-”

“Winters already here, Jaskier.”

T he bard paused. 

“..What?” 

“Winter is here.” Geralt repeated, softly, as if speaking to a skittish animal. “We’re at Kaer Morhen. We’d- Me and Ciri- we’d reached Kaer Morhen when I found out..” 

His first reaction was to deny it. It couldn’t possibly have been that long. 

“The roads are snowed shut. There’s nowhere to go.” Geralt sighed. “Even if there were, even if- Jaskier- this is where I _want_ to be.”

The bards mind was spinning.

He’d been kept by the Nilfgaardians for months.  _Months._

Geralt had found his child surprise, and taken her to safety, back to his home.

Geralt felt so guilty, thought the bard so  _pathetic_ in his current state, he was  _lying_ to him. 

He’d never known Geralt to speak  _anything_ but his mind. 

_ I don’t deserve this. None of it. Not his care, or his lies, anything. _

“Cirilla.” He choked out, trying desperately to grasp at a thought that didn’t cause his chest to feel two sizes two small for him. “She’s- alright?” 

“She’s fine. Training with Vesemir right now.” Geralt confirmed. “Yen’s helping her control her magic- She inherited Pavettas power it seems.”

Pavetta. The night of her betrothal feast. Another painful memory Jaskier wanted  _ not _ to think of. Another pile of shit  _ he’d _ shoveled for the Witcher. 

“I’m glad, this- This is good, I’m glad she’s safe. I’m glad you found her, I- I heard of Cintras fall; I hoped she’d be alright.” The bard babbled, trying desperately to keep the dread at bay, least it overwhelm him yet again. 

_ You have to be strong. Be strong for him, for the man you love. He can do better, he  _ has  _ to do better. Ciri needs him, she deserves all his attention. _

_ I don’t deserve a thing. _

“You should go train with her, I’m _fine_ Geralt. A bit banged up but I can manage, I can-” He made to sit up further, pulled his hands back despite every cell of his body screaming at him to _stop_ , to _take more,_ to _beg_ for Geralt to _never fucking leave._

His muscles seized up before he could get very far, and with a yowl of pain, he fell back to the bed. 

_ Worthless, feeble, disgusting, you can’t even do this, can’t give him what he wants _ ,  _ what he asked for- _

“ _Stop. Moving_.” It wasn’t a request, it was an _order_ , and Jaskier was helpless to obey. “Look at me, songbird.” 

_ I can’t, I  _ can’t _ , you don’t understand! You can’t see how pathetic I am, how  _ wrong  _ it is to have you here, to have you with me! _

“No. _No no no_.” The minstrel sobbed, turning his head away from the very man he wanted to stare at until he took his last breathe. “I can’t, I _shouldn’t-”_

“You can, Jaskier. You’re so _strong_ , little lark, _my sweet bard_ , don’t turn away from me.” 

The tenderness in those words did nothing to settle him, only made things  _worse_ , caused another shuddering, painful sob to escape his aching chest. 

_ Why can’t you see how  _ broken _ I am?  _

“Please, _please_ stop, just leave me here, Geralt, I’m _begging you_.” He cried, doing his best to curl in on himself, wanting nothing more than to disappear into nothingness, to be _anywhere_ but here. He had to protect Geralt, protect him from the _disaster_ that he’d become. 

_ You’ve always been a disaster. Wherever you go, you bring nothing but misfortune. Bring suffering to every person you ever loved. _

“ _No._ ” The world was growled, and suddenly, the world was shifting; the bed beneath him dipping, and _oh gods_ , no no no- this was wrong, he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t-

“Don’t, don’t _do_ this, Geralt, you don’t _understand-_ ” 

Strong warms encased him, pulled him back against a firm, warm chest. 

Jaskier fought as best he could, wriggled in Geralts grasp, trying to escape his embrace. To accept the kindness was to  _doom_ his white wolf, to let him waste his time  tending to a man that should be  _dead_ -

_ I  wish I was dead. It’d be better that way. _

“Calm down.” Geralt replied, moving along with the bards every squirming, likely trying his best to hold on without causing more pain. “Calm down, darling bard. I understand.”

“Don’t call me that, stop _lying_ , just _stop_!” He screamed, lungs shrieking in protest at the sudden exertion. It hurt _too much_ , ripped apart his already shattered body from the inside out. 

“ _I’m not lying.”_ The Witcher hissed, taking hold of Jaskiers cheek, turning his head towards him as he held fast. “Look at me Jaskier.”

Whimpering, Jaskier gave up and stilled himself. Did as he was told, catching the Witchers gaze with his own.

“I know it hurts.” The man muttered, pressing his forehead to the bards. “I know everything feels raw, split open and bloody. I _know_ what they did to you.”

“Geralt-” 

“Let me talk.” Another growl, another order Jaskier dared not refuse. 

“I’m _so sorry_ , little lark. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’ll never- _never_ be able to tell you how _much_ I regret sending you away that night. I’m not leaving you again; you can try and chase me away; but I will _never_ leave your side again _._ ” 

Jaskier bawled ever harder, unable to keep the tears from shedding. Felt like he was bleeding out, like every single wound gracing his body had been reopened,  _dripping_ with puss and blood.

_ Wrong, wrong,  _ wrong!

Wasn’t worth these promises, these honeyed words that he’d been  _longing_ to hear for most of his life.

_ Stop crying like a  _ bitch _ , pull yourself together; make him go away, make him  _ understand _ ; make him- _

Tender lips were pressed to his cheek. 

He froze, eyes wide. 

Another kiss to his cheek, and another, until he realized what was happening. 

Geralt  _ kissing away his tears. _

It was  _too much_ . Too much to handle, even if he hadn’t just gone through hell and back.

He didn’t want to be awake anymore. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to-

_ I want to die. _

A last, lingering press of lips all that he felt as darkness took him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the super depressing chapter I figured everyone could do with some fluff, so here it is. 
> 
> And a big thank you to all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks. <3 You guys make my day!

Geralt had seen many things in his long life.

He’d fought in wars, and seen its aftermath. He’d lost friends. He’d loved, and lost. Faced more monsters than he could count, and learned early on that sometimes, the _real_ monsters were the humans he was meant to protect.

Watching his little lark fall apart like that, _fighting him_ when he so plainly wanted nothing more than some comfort-

It broke his heart.

T he bard went slack in his arms so suddenly, for a moment the Witcher feared, rather irrationally, that he had died. Cold dread rose in his chest, filling his lungs like sludge, blood rushing in his ears so loudly, it made it impossible to hear anything else. Calloused fingers brushed against the bards neck, easily finding a pulse. 

The door creaked open, and this time, with the minstrels own fear and sadness still hanging heavily in the air, pressed against Geralts chest and so undoubtedly in need of protecting- the possessive,  _warning_ growl simply couldn’t be avoided. 

“Cut it out, Geralt. You don’t scare me.”

Vesemir. 

For a split second, Geralt wanted to continue his growling. Keep everything,  _and everyone_ , away from his precious songbird. But the older wolf wouldn’t have come here without a reason; especially when he was in charge of Ciri. The girl appeared at his side, almost as if she’d read his mind. Any fear of danger seeped from Geralts mind. 

None of them would take Ciri anywhere that wasn’t unquestionably safe. 

“The lass heard him screamin’.” Vesemir gruffed, gently pushing the girl into the room before him. “Wouldn’t train ‘til she saw he was alright.” 

“Hmm.” 

He really didn’t want to jostle the bard any more than he had to; he needed his rest. Emotional outbursts tended to be just as exhausting as physical exertion. But the cub was worried, large, pale blue eyes fixed on the tuft of brown hair she could see from her position.

“Come, Ciri.” Geralt beckoned, softly, as not to disturb the bards slumber. Once she’d joined them at the bed, he turned ever so slightly, moved his arm to take hold of her hand. 

“He’s alright, Ciri. I swear it.” She nodded, glancing over Jaskier. 

“I recognized him.” She whispered, glancing guilty at Geralt. “When I first saw him.”

“..Why didn’t you tell me?” Brows furrowed, he squeezed the girls hand, hoping to encourage her to speak.

“I wasn’t sure, at first. It’d been years since he was last at court, and I thought-” Her voice quivered. “I didn’t _want_ it to be him. He was always so nice, and funny. Grandmother hated his song, I don’t think she liked _him_ very much either, but- I’d always ask for him to play on my nameday. She only refused the last two times.”

S o Jaskier had gone to court. Had sang for Ciri on her birthday. Been good to her when Geralt had ignored her. 

“He’d stay a few days, after the celebration.” She continued. “Grandmother said he was lazy, that he was taking advantage of a royal invitation but.. She didn’t know he’d stay so he could tell me stories, and sing me songs. Tell me about the new places he’d been.”

“He’s good at telling stories.” Geralt agreed, attempting not to show how touched he was by his little larks actions. Seemingly incapable of running _out_ of love, he cared for everyone he encountered. Given that they hadn’t tried to kill him before. 

“Grandmother said he was good at telling stories because he’s good at lying.” Her nose wrinkled with the accusation. “That making up stories and making up lies were the same thing.”

Geralt couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Jaskier  _was_ awfully good at spinning tales a certain way; but he’d never known the bard to lie about anything  _important_ . 

“Sometimes, that’s true.” Vesemir huffed, stepping closer to examine the bard himself. “But if Geralt trusts him, cub, so can you.” 

They stood in silent for a while, Geralt still holding the girls hand while he cradled the bard against himself; and it struck him in that moment that these two, these wonderful,  _pure_ beings where the most important things in the world to him now. His bard, and his cub, who he’d die to protect any day of the week. It was as frightening as it was freeing. 

_ I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me. _

How things had changed since that faithful conversation. Back then, he’d thought of needing someone as  _ weakness. _ He knew better now. 

“Why was he screaming?” Ciri finally broke the silence, inching a little closer to the injured bard. “He looks like he’s doing better. Is he hurt?”

And what was he supposed to reply? How could be explain to a child that some wounds weren’t on the body, but on the  _soul_ itself? He glanced at Vesemir, hoping the older Wolf would sense his distress, and take over. Vesemir glared at him, huffed, and  shook his head. This one was on Geralt alone.

“Not in the way you’re thinking.” He Witcher replied, slowly; hoping to buy himself time to find the right words. “His body is healing. He _is_ getting better. But- hmm.” 

How to put this. 

“Have you ever had a nightmare?” He finally questioned, watching as the girl tensed, then quickly nodded. “Sometimes- when something bad happens to people, when they wake up; even when their body is mending- it still _feels_ like a nightmare. Like they never stopped dreaming. And all the- the fear and hurt is still there. Like the bad things they dreamed about are still happening.” 

“That sounds. _Awful._ ” The cub muttered, sympathy so clear in her voice and gaze, Geralt himself had to wonder, if maybe, she understood the concept more than she was letting on. “Does it get better?” 

“It does.” It wasn’t a lie, not really. He’d simply _forgotten_ to add a single word. 

_ Sometimes. _

He’d seen many soldiers that had gone mad from what they’d witnessed. From what they’d been  _forced_ to do. Some simply hadn’t been  _able_ to take it. He’d looked upon the bodies of widows, and widowers, of those who’d lost their young; their loss simply  _too much_ to bare.  Each hurt left a different wound. Each person handled that wound differently. Some lived, finding new meaning and carrying on. Others.. simply couldn’t.

He’d make  _damn_ sure Jaskier wouldn’t belong to the latter. 

“It just needs time.” He continued, ignoring the glowering look Vesemir gave him. 

“Do you think he’d be happy to see me again? When he wakes up, I mean.” She questioned, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from the bards face, under the Witchers watchful eyes. 

“He’d be delighted. He was glad to hear you were here with us. That you’re safe.” 

The lion cub paused, then gave a determined nod. She turned to Vesemir, drawing herself up as if she planned to face a fight.

“I’m not going to train today.” 

Vesemirs brows shot up so high they almost touched his, rather receded, hairline. 

“You’re not, are ya?” He questioned gruffly, though Geralt could detect rather clearly the amusement the Wolf was trying to conceal. 

“No. I’m going to stay with Geralt, and if Jaskier wakes up, _I’ll_ tell him stories and sing him songs.” Gods, how much she reminded Geralt of Calanthe now. Stubborn, her head held high, _daring_ the older Witcher to deny her request. The Cub of Cintra had learned much from her grandmother. “He’d do the same for me if I was hurt, to cheer me up.”

“And how do you think your other mentor will take to this news, cub?” 

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She replied stubbornly, thin arms crossed above her chest. “I like Yennefer, but today, she’ll have to find someone _else_ to train. And so will you.”

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard someone speak to Vesemir that brazenly. It might well have been centuries since the man had come across anyone that brave. 

_Pride_ filled him, from his scalp to his toes. 

His little cub was going to bat for someone she so very clearly cared about; even if there was a good chance it would cost her later. 

Golden eyes stared off against pale blue. A silent conversation, that anyone that didn’t  _know_ Vesemir as well as he did, would have taken as a battle of wills. As it stood, Geralt wasn’t worried. Ciri wouldn’t be forced to train against her will.

“As you wish, princess.” Vesemir eventually gave in, nodding towards the bard. “You can take the day to tend to the bard, if that’s what you desire. But _you’ll_ be the one to give that news to the sorceress. I’ve no intention of dealing with her myself.”

“You can send her to come talk to me, then.” Ciri agreed, turning back to Geralt. “If you move a bit, I can sit on the bed with you. Do you need me to get him anything? Fresh water, maybe?” 

“No.” His songbird was fine for now. The water he’d offered him earlier only brought to the room a few hours earlier. He watched her deflate just a bit. “But.. why don’t you tell him one of your stories.”

“He’s asleep.” Obviously confused, she regarded Geralt skeptically. Still, he moved himself and Jaskier just a bit further on the bed, allowing enough room for her to settle.

“People can still hear while they sleep, Ciri. And if they hear nice things, at times, it helps them dream of them. He could do with a good dream.”

Ciri nodded, and began her tale. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just a little more Ciri and Geralt fluff, this time including Jaskier, because I'll be damned if those three arent the best together.
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with me for so long <3 You all make my day with your kind comments , and kudos <3

Awareness returned to Jaskier in phases.

Hearing came first. Soft snoring reached the bards ears. So, he wasn’t alone.

Next, his sense of touch kicked in. His body was pressed up against a much larger one, with planes of hard, trained muscles. A strong arm wrapped around him, holding him tight.

Geralt.

His hand rested on the Witchers chest, rising and falling with each breath the man took; what confused him was the petite hand placed above his own.

Still half asleep, he forced his eyes open to solve the riddle.

He was laying in bed with Geralt, as he’d predicted; the white wolf on his back, the bards head resting on his shoulder. On the other side, however, laid a face he hadn’t seen in years.

Cirilla.

Sleeping contently curled up against the Witchers side, her face fully relaxed. There was no question she trusted Geralt wholeheartedly, felt safe in his arms. He couldn’t blame her at all. Even when they’d spent the night in the darkest, creepiest woods Jaskier could imagine, hunting some terrible monster, he’d never been afraid. Not with Geralt at his side.

The question was, why by all the gods had these two decided to  _lay down_ with him? 

Ciri surely had her own bed, in her own room, where she could rest comfortably. And if she’d had a nightmare, or simply didn’t want to sleep alone tonight, why hadn’t Geralt just joined her there?

_I’m not leaving you again; you can try and chase me away; but I will never leave your side again._

Ah. Now he remembered. Geralts vow, for lack of a better word, to remain with him.

The sweetest and simultaneously  most  _idiotic_ promise anyone had ever given Jaskier. 

Once he could convince the Witcher he was fine, he’d ask him to move on. Alleviate the poor man’s guilt and send him on to better things. Which really meant he’d only have to convince Geralt he was well enough to travel once more, and leave Kaer Morhen behind. Geralt would remain here, with Ciri and Yennefer, and they’d become a happy little family.

Jaskier would do his best to lick his wounds and not die at the side of the road. At least, not anywhere near the Witchers home. He’d never forgive himself if he caused Geralt more pain than he already had.

He could see Geralts expression clear as day in his mind, as he stumbled over his body, blaming himself once more for something that just  _wasn’t his fault._

Like the bard getting captured and tortured for information on him.

Jaskier desperately wanted to move, to inch away from the sleeping figures beside him, but there was nowhere to go. On one side was the wall, and on the other Geralt, who would no doubt wake should Jaskier attempt to escape.

Not to mention that he had no idea if his legs would carry him.

Slowly, he attempted to stretch them out, giving an involuntary gasp at the burn that traveled from his ankles all the way up to his hips. He froze,  held his breathe, prayed that his bed mates remained asleep.

He was not that lucky.

Golden eyes quickly found his, the grip on his shoulder tightening ever so slightly. He wasn’t getting away.

“Alright?” Came the gruff question, and a shiver ran along the bards spine. Geralts voice had always done things to him, and now, hearing it up close it was _much_ worse. 

“I- yes. Just a bit sore.” He answered, as quietly as he could, trusting that the Witchers heightened senses allowed him to pick up on his words.

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded, calmly moving Ciri off his chest, movements so fluid the princess wasn’t disturbed. Her head now resting on the pillow, the Witcher moved over her, got to his feet, and headed towards the end of the bed.

“Geralt, what are you-”

“Muscles get sore when you don’t use them.” Before Jaskier could stop him, strong hands took hold of his right calf, long, calloused fingers pressing into his muscles; making him groan out in pain. “Hurts at first; but it’ll get better.”

“ _I’ll wake her_.” The minstrel objected weakly, only to hiss and bite down on his lower lip as roughened fingertips pushed against a particularly tender spot. 

“She’s already awake.”

S tartled, Jaskier turned his head only to have the Witchers words confirmed. Ciri was looking rather disgruntled, but her dismay was not aimed at him. 

“You didn’t have to _tell_ him. Now he’ll feel guilty.”

“He’d feel guilty either way.”

Damn. Geralt knew him too well.

Deciding, for now, that it was better to simply let the Witcher do as he pleased, he turned to Ciri.

“Princess Cirilla! Its so good to see you again!” He forced as much cheer into his voice as he could manage, but between the pain of muscles being forced to relax, the general discomfort he was still in, and the voice inside his head hollering that _this wasn’t right, he didn’t deserve this_ ; it fell flat. Ciri was graceful enough to pretend she didn’t notice.

“Its good to see you, too.” She smiled, apparently content to remain laying beside him, as she made no move to sit. “I’ve missed you. You always told the best stories. And you knew all my favorite songs.”

“You flatter me, princess.” He returned, giving a lopsided, yet genuine, smile. “Your nameday celebrations were always my favorite event of the year. I’m saddened I could not attend the last two.”

“You didn’t miss much. They weren’t half as entertaining as when you visited.”

Her smile warmed the bards heart, a warmth that spread from his chest to the rest of his body.  It left him feeling, not quite at peace, but- at least  _calmer_ . 

“Well, perhaps when I’m a bit more put together, I can recount some of my newer tales to you.” Another rather painful press of fingers caused him to wince, though he tried his best to cover it up with a fake cough. As much as he appreciated the little lion cubs presence, it _was_ rather exhausting having to keep up appearances. It directly conflicted with the joy he felt at seeing her alive and taken care of, and that discrepancy only seemed to drain him more.

“Its late.” Geralt rumbled, quirking a brow at Ciri. “Go on, off to bed with you.”

Sometimes Jaskier really wondered if Geralt could read his mind.

Ciri looked like she had half the mind to argue, but eventually gave a curt nod. She stood, and much to the bards surprise, leaned over him to peck his forehead.

“Good night Jaskier. Get better soon.”

The simple gesture enough to bring tears to the minstrels eyes  for what  _felt_ like the millionth time.  Either she didn’t notice, or she simply ignored the sudden show of emotion; whatever it was, Jaskier was grateful. He watched her disappear through the door, and once it fell shut, allowed himself a shuddering breath.

“Geralt, I appreciate what you’re doing, truly; but- _ah!_ ” Another sore spot, leaving Jaskier to wonder how many muscles could possibly exist to _be_ sore in a single leg. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

W ell, how was he supposed to respond to  _that_ ?

“Why?” He questioned, because there wasn’t a single reason he could come up with that would explain the Witchers willingness to tend to him. Had Geralt truly not realized yet that he didn’t merit such treatment?

“You’re important to me. You’re in pain, and I can ease it. Why wouldn’t I help?”

_ Because you made it very clear what I am to you. Because you were  _ right _. Because all I’ve done is make your life hell.  _

“If this is for Ciri’s benefit, I promise you, it isn’t necessary. A few more days and I’ll be good as new, and-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted him, halting his movement on Jaskiers leg as he spoke. “I wish you’d _listen_ to me. I _want_ to be here, with you. I _want_ to help you. Why won’t you believe me?”

“I believe you.”

_I’m just not worth all this effort._

“Then let me take care of you.” Slowly, he resumed his motions, working silently for a while, with an intent expression gracing his features.

“You never told me you went back to Cintra.”

  
Right.

“I didn’t think you’d want to know.” He shifted, feeling rather awkward. “Whenever I mentioned Cintra, you- ah. Made it rather _clear_ you’d rather forget about it.”

“Indeed.” Another pause, and then. “I was wrong about that, too. Should have taken responsibility sooner. By the time I went back, Calanthe wasn’t exactly _pleased_ with me.”

“I don’t think she was pleased with either of us.”

“She didn’t send men to kill you, I’d wager.”

“She _what_?” Jaskier couldn’t believe it. For all the things he’d thought the Mother of Cintra capable of, sending men to murder Geralt- actually, now that he thought about it, it didn’t seem so far fetched. 

“Its understandable.” Geralt continued. “I’d ignored Ciri for her entire life, and one day I showed up, bringing tidings of the Nilfgaardian army at her doorstep, and demanded she give her granddaughter into my care. She thought Ciri was safe with her.”

“She was wrong.”

Jaskier remembered the day he’d gotten word of Cintras fate; it had hit him like a good punch to the stomach; forced the air straight out of his lungs. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he’d have fallen to his knees.

“Yes. She was.” Geralt sighed, switching to the bards other leg, as he spoke. “I was lucky to find Ciri when I did. I was injured. Delirious for at least a day. A farmer loaded me onto his cart, planning to take me home with him. Saved his life, ‘s how I got hurt. His wife came out, told him about finding a girl, and how that girl had run into the woods on her own.”

“How did you know it was Ciri?” The bard inquired, now rather curious. Any other man would not have noticed the subtle shift in the Witchers pose, but as it was, Jaskier caught the tensing of the others shoulders.

“..A long time ago. Long before we met. There was a woman. She told me.” He was clearly unsettled, balked at the notion of discussing this, and yet, he continued. “ _The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny._ ”

“What happened to her? To the woman that said that?” 

He regretted asking the second Geralts expression soured, and he was about to apologize when Geralt spoke.

“I killed her.”

That.. had not been the answer he’d expected. Geralt didn’t kill humans, not if he had a choice, so in some way, this mysterious woman had forced his hand. Yet he spoke of her with so much emotion, Jaskier couldn’t help but ask.

“Did you love her?”

“No. She was an outcast, like me. I.. sympathized with her, in a way. Slept with her. But I barely knew her.”

“It must have been horrible, regardless.” Jaskier hummed, thoughtfully. “You’ve never talked to me this much before. Why are you telling me this now?”

“I have a lot to make up for.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, I wanted to throw in some Yen and Geralt, because their relationship (even if its not romantic anymore in this story) deserved some attention. Its complicated, because they all, Jaskier included, will in some way shape Ciri's future. I wanted to explore that dynamic a bit more.
> 
> I am sorry this chapter turned out so short, but your girl was struck down by a sinus infection. I'll do my best to still update as much as possible, but over the next week or so, I might take a day off. Please forgive me!
> 
> Thank you guys for all your amazing comments, and the kudos!

There were many things that annoyed Yennefer in her long life.

Ignorance, for example. Men thinking they were better than women solely because they had a cock and balls attached to them. People that presumed to know what she wanted from life.

Honestly, there were _probably_ more things that annoyed her, than didn’t. 

Jaskier,  _ Geralts bard _ , had definitely made that list the moment he’d opened his mouth.  Back during the while djinn incident, she’d quickly decided she disliked the man, and wanted nothing to do with him.

As it turned out, being  _ hounded _ about the bard was worse than Jaskier himself.

“Its too soon, Geralt.” She snapped, irritated that the Witcher did not seem to understand simple instructions. “If you give him solid food right now, he’ll just throw it all up. And if he manages to get some of it into his lungs, he’ll end up with pneumonia. Is that what you _want_?”

“Of course not.” The man replied in his usual growl. “But he’s already lost so much weight, there must be _something_ you can-”

“I’m not a fucking miracle worker, Witcher. His body will take time to recover, and until I’m convinced he can tolerate solid fucking food, he won’t _get_ solid food. You brought him to me to help him, not accidentally _kill_ him.”

Geralt huffed, glared at her, like it would do anything but annoy her further. She’d been glared at by far more powerful enemies, and she was still here. Geralt didn’t frighten her  _ in the slightest.  _

“He’s not.. well.” Geralt finally admitted.

“Did you expect him to be?” Honestly, Geralt could be as infuriating as the very bard they were talking about when he wanted to be. “After what he went through?”

“No. I just- How do I _help_ him, Yen?” The man began to pace the length of her room, back and forth, fists clenched at his sides, teeth grinding against each other. “I can change his dressings and help him drink and stretch his legs, but the fucking _second_ I try to- to prove to him I _care_ he _shuts down_.”

Yen snorted.

She’d thought about having the Witcher in her room late at night many times, over the years. Some of them included them arguing, others a hot bath. She’d imagined them in various states of undress, and different positions.

Not once, in all the years she’d known him, had she imagined such a late night visit would consist  _ entirely _ of them fighting over the bard she found so very,  _ very _ unpleasant. 

Geralt was incredibly lucky she was such a generous person.

“Can you blame him?” She sighed, turning her back to him as she untied the laces of her cloak. “The last time you spoke to him before this affair, you _blamed_ him for everything bad that had ever happened to you since you two met. And now, after he took an _almost_ impressive amount of torture protecting you, _suddenly_ you want him to believe he matters?”

She settled onto a nearby chair, placed neatly in front of the table she was using as a vanity table, old and rough as it was. The mirror she now gazed into, she’d brought herself.

“Your bard is many things, but apparently he isn’t completely _devoid_ of reasoning skills. Everyone that spends some time with the _noble_ Geralt of Rivia knows that guilt is one of your largest motivators. He’s right to be suspicious.”

“This isn’t fucking guilt.” Geralt grunted, now _finally_ done with his pacing, it seemed. “I didn’t _know-_ ”

“Yes, yes, you didn’t _know_ , and that’s all well and good.” She cut in, hoping to avoid another rambling confession from him. “But _he_ doesn’t know, either. He doesn’t _know_ that you realized much too late how you really felt for him, or why you lashed out at him on that mountain. And even if you _told_ him, how could he believe you now? _I_ wouldn’t believe you, if I were in his shoes.”

“There _has_ to be a way.” The Witcher insisted, running a hand through the tangled mess he called hair. “He’s suffering, and I can’t _stop_ it.”

“Wounds of the mind and soul take time to heal, too, Geralt. Sometimes much more than the body. You know this.” 

_You’ve gone through enough of those wounds yourself._

“..He doesn’t deserve any of it. Not what I did, nor what happened after.”

And really, that was just  _ enough _ . She stood, rounded on him, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.

“No one _gets_ what they deserve, Witcher, not in this world. You’re not this stupid, Geralt. You need to stop trying to _force_ things to get better. You can’t bully him into believing you, and a few weeks of attention are _not_ going to erase _months_ of torture and heartbreak.”

Geralt opened his mouth to interrupt, but she continued, before he had the chance.

“As much as your little bard will deny it, _you are_ partially at fault for this. It was information on _you_ they wanted, and _you_ were the one that sent him away. But unless you’ve somehow acquired the power of time travel, there’s _nothing_ you can do to change it. So how about, instead of feeling sorry for yourself and him, you focus on moving _forward with him._ ” 

_ T _ _ hank the gods _ , blessed silence.

She could almost see the cogs working in the Witchers brain as he thought about the wisdom she’d just imparted to him. 

“Move forward.” He murmured, nodded, and without another word, strode out of her room like a man on a mission. 

“You’re _welcome! Again!_ ” She called after him, rolling her eyes.  


“Men.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed a chapter! yay!

“Okay, now. _Slowly_.”

Jaskier huffed, only barely resisting the urge to glare at the Witcher.

“Yes, I _promise_ , I’ll be careful. You really don’t have to hover like this, Geralt.” He was a grown man damn it, he didn’t need to be babied. And yet, the Witcher was fretting over him like he was a child. It was as irritating as it was endearing. 

“I do. You haven’t used your legs in-”

“In months, _I know_.” The bard huffed, looking up from where he was sat on the edge of the bed, his feet against the ground. His hands were still useless, but gods, if he spent any more time tied to this gods forsaken bed, he’d _lose his mind_.

He’d spent weeks in it, first because his injuries needed to heal, and then because his body simply didn’t possess the strength to hold itself up, thanks to his liquid diet Yen had insisted on.

But finally, a week ago, she’d allowed him solid food. And while the first few days had brought him cramps and nausea, he’d been absolutely  _ euphoric _ . No more swallowing down potions and broth, getting to taste bread and other delicious things he’d gone so long without. 

And today, Geralt had finally been moved to have mercy on him, to allow him to try and take a few steps. Others might not have considered it a big deal, but to Jaskier, it meant  _ everything.  _ Getting back on his feet meant regaining some of his agency, not having to rely on Geralt all day  _ every _ day. 

He didn’t expect to be strong enough to go wandering around the castle just yet, but if he could walk enough to get himself water, and intro a proper ba th .. oh, it was all he could ask for. 

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. Just- Help me up.” He needed something with which to push himself upwards, and his poor hands were in no condition. The Witcher nodded, grabbed him under the arms and ever so gently lifted him up.

It wasn’t all that bad, Jaskier thought, when his legs protested less than he’d anticipated. But then, Geralt was still holding him up.

“I’m fine, Geralt, come on. Let me try!”

The Witcher, still looking rather  concerned, gave a short nod and moved back. 

For a  _ second _ , everything was fine. 

And then it wasn’t.

His legs didn’t hold, the floor coming closer at an alarming rate, and he fully expected to impact on the stone not a moment later.

Instead, he was enveloped by strong arms, breaking his fall and gently righting him again.

“Alright?” His savior growled, holding him upright, their faces only inches apart.

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier replied, just a bit flustered at how  _ close  _ they were. He couldn’t recall a time he’d been allowed into the Witchers personal space to quite this degree. Geralt sleeping beside him when he was injured didn’t count, that had been a necessity after he’d broken down. At least in Geralts mind.

He hadn’t come apart like that again, mainly because he hadn’t  _ allowed  _ another conversation resembling the one they’d had then.

Geralt, bless the mans soul, had _tried._ Had wanted to be tender with Jaskier, reassure him that he wasn’t alone, wasn’t unloved. The bard had deflected or requested rest, or kept his mouth full with food; anything to avoid it. 

He simply couldn’t  _ bare _ all the feelings rushing throughout his body whenever the white wolf tried to declare his affection.  It was pathetic; really. All the time he’d known Geralt, getting conformation that he mattered had been all he wanted. Yet now, when he was being offered them, he refused. 

Golden eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as the Witcher took in his scent. Whatever information he gained from this seemed to trouble him, for the gently settled the minstrel back onto the edge of the bed.

“..Might be best to start off just reminding the muscles to work.” Jaskier had barely processed the sentence when Geralt dropped to his knees.

“Geralt, what are you doing?” He inquired, torn between curiosity and embarrassment. He couldn’t believe how  _ weak _ he’d become. If he couldn’t even  _ stand _ , how was he ever going to get out of Geralts way? At this pace, winter would be long gone before he was fit enough to travel. 

“Saw a medic do this once, went to her for some herbs.” One hand was placed beneath his thigh, the other on the bottom of his foot. “Witchers don’t usually stay laid up long enough for their muscles to weaken like this. I should’ve  _ known _ it’d be different for you.”

“Its not your fault. You’ve never dealt with anything like this, why  _ would _ you think of it?” 

Jaskier wanted so badly to reach out, to comfort him, maybe run his fingers through the white hair, softly scrape his nails along scalp-

But even if he’d thought that a  _ good  _ idea, he couldn’t have. His fingers were still too sore. Yen made him move them just a bit every day, and even  _ that  _ was agony. 

It was a shit idea, as it was. It would only get him that soft look Geralt had started giving him whenever he thought Jaskier was hurting.

Just thinking about it made Jaskier want to cry.

It really should be illegal to be as gorgeous as the one before him.  Especially when they used his distraction at their beauty to avoid answering.

“I’m going to stretch your leg out, now. Then  I want you to try and pull it back, and bend it. Like you’d do when you prepare to stand up.” 

“ Alright.” Jaskier replied, rather hesitantly. What good was this going to do? But he did as asked, feeling the strain in his muscles rather acutely. “And this will help?”

“Hmm. She said that sometimes, unused muscle had to get reminded how to work; and it helped to strengthen them again, too.”

Huh. That made sense.

“We’ll do it five times with this leg, and then we’ll switch to the other.” Geralt decided, and Jaskier went along with it. Arguing with him these days had become completely futile. Whenever Jaskier protested Geralts help, or insisted he could be on his own for a few hours, the man adopted a look of- Well, it was  _ similar _ to that of a kicked dog.  And really, that was  _ completely  _ unfair. 

Refusing Geralt a conversation was enough; took all his energy. Refusing him on anything else was simply impossible.

The movement hurt, and his legs quickly felt sore, but when Geralt suggested they take a break, he shook his head.

“I can go a bit longer.  _ Please. _ ”

Surprisingly, he was met with no resistance. They lapsed into silence, only broken by the small puffs of breath he let out when the pain became a bit  _ too  _ sharp. 

“The coast.”

“What?” Genuinely confused, Jaskier tilted his head. Had he heard that right?

“When you’re healed. We could.. go to the coast.” Geralt muttered, pointedly avoiding eye contact, gently settling his right foot back onto the ground. “Spend the summer there, maybe.”

“ Geralt..” Gods, how was he supposed to get out of this? He knew what the Witcher was trying to do; was trying to lift his spirits, give him a goal to work towards, but more importantly, he was trying to be  _ kind. _ Jaskier had to refuse, he  _ had  _ to; the longer he stayed with Geralt, the more he’d drag him down. 

Refusing him directly wouldn’t help. It’d only lead to the very conversation he was so desperately trying to avoid.

But he couldn’t just  _ lie  _ and agree to it, either. 

“What would you do at the coast  _ all summer _ ?” Yes, this could work. “There’s hardly enough monsters in a single area to pay for a longer stay. If you didn’t die of boredom, you’d go insane spending that much time with me. I mean, even the people that  _ adore  _ me couldn’t bare that much of my company.” 

He’d meant it as a joke. Or, he’d meant it to come  _ across  _ as a joke. He hadn’t anticipated a real reaction. 

“ _ Don’t. Talk like that. _ ” The wolf growled, moving upwards, placing large hands on Jaskiers knees. They were face to face again, and  _ oh _ , even snarling and angry, Geralt was an absolute vision. “You’re not  _ annoying _ .”

“Alright, I’m not annoying.” Jaskier soothed after he recovered from the shock of so suddenly coming face to face with an angry Witcher. He didn’t want to upset him.  _ Never _ wanted to upset him.

“You say that, but you don’t  _ believe _ it.” Frustration plain as day graced Geralts face, nostrils flaring once more as he inhaled sharply, as if to calm himself. “You don’t  _ believe me _ when I say-”

“Please, Geralt, stop-”

“ _ No _ .” Another growl,  _ no no no  _ this couldn’t happen- “You’re  _ going _ to listen to me, Jaskier. You’re going to  _ hear  _ me.”

Jaskier didn’t  _ want _ to listen. He didn’t  _ want _ to hear. 

“I cant change the past, as much as I wish I could. But I can form the future. A future I want to  _ share _ with  _ you _ . I want to go to the coast with you, and spend the summer there. And after that, I want you on the Path with me, day and night. I  _ want  _ to protect you, and hunt for you, and make you  _ happy _ .”

_Too much, too much-_

“I want to hold you in my arms, I want to lay beside you at night, and wake to you in the morning. Every pleasure this shitty world has to offer, I  _ want _ to give to you. And if you allow it, I’d  give you my heart, my body and my soul _.  _ I’d love you, Jaskier. If you’d just  _ let  _ me. ”

Jaskier couldn’t stop the tears, and for once, he didn’t want to. Let them flow freely, streaking his cheeks in warm, wet paths.

_I’d love you, Jaskier._

It was too good to be true.

“You don’t mean that.” He sobbed, covering his eyes with his hand, forcing the words past trembling lips. “Geralt, this isn’t  _ love,  _ this is  _ guilt.  _ You didn’t feel this way before, I  _ know  _ that, and  _ you  _ know it, too! Nothing has changed since then! My capture, the torture, it doesn’t change that you  _ sent me away _ because all I caused you was  _ pain. _ ”

“ That isn’t true. I was angry that night, its true, but it wasn’t at  _ you _ . I lashed out at you, because you were  _ there,  _ and convenient. But it wasn’t until you were gone that I- that I realized that losing  _ you  _ was so much worse than losing Yen.”

“ How can you say that? How can you- after  _ everything _ \- I was there! For weeks, after  _ every _ time you parted ways with her, you were _ miserable _ -”

“After parting ways with  _ you _ , on that mountain, I was  _ broken _ .”

Cries clawed themselves out of the bards chest, ugly, tortured sounds that he so badly wanted to silence, to no avail. He sobbed and sobbed, shaking from head to toe. Heart pounding against his rips so hard, he’d not have been surprised to see it beat straight through his chest and out of his body.

_ T his can’t be true. _

Roughened palms brushed against his cheeks, lifted his head until he was once more captured by molten pools of gold.

“I know you can’t believe me. Not yet. But I will _ prove _ to you that I’m speaking the truth. That  _ every _ word I just said, I  _ meant _ . Please Jaskier. I am begging you,  _ please _ . Will you give me chance, to show you that- That I  _ love  _ you?” 

Jaskier new better than this. Knew that hope  _ paralyzed. _

That once Geralt recognized that he’d been  _ wrong _ , it’d hurt so much more than simply being sent away. 

It would end in  _ disaster _ , he was certain. 

“ _ Yes _ .”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys. first off: SMUTT WARNING. Oh my god yes, we finally made it to some sexy stuff. If you guys arent into that, skip this chapter. (although why you'd be reading this in the first place if it wasn't your thing I don't know.) 
> 
> Secondly, I've made this chapter longer to make up for missing days , and I'm honestly probably going to miss a few more in the next couple weeks. Would you guys prefer I make it a rule to just write longer chapters and update less frequently, or are short, daily updates better? I'll let you guys decide!
> 
> Thank you for everyone thats stuck with me and this fic for this long, for all the comments and the kudos <3

The night of his confession had changed a lot of things.

For one, Geralt spent every night sharing his bards bed, the mans smaller form pressed against his chest. It felt-  _amazing_ . Better than he’d thought it would, honestly. Getting to be this  _close_ , close enough to hold and protect and  _cherish_ ; it warmed the Witchers chest in ways he’d never experienced before. 

There was just something _special_ about having Jaskier curled against him, trusting Geralt to keep him safe, face so  _sweet_ and finally  _relaxed_ , unlike it was whenever the minstrel was awake. 

Another perk, the kissing.

Kissing had always been something Geralt enjoyed, though he’d sooner die than admit it. Any kind of kiss was to his liking, from rough, passionate ones to the chaste, sweet ones. While other men regarded the action as a necessity,  a _prelude_ to what they truly wanted, Geralt was quite happy spending hours doing  _nothing_ else. 

Unfortunately, the kind of company he’d kept in the past hadn’t exactly been the type to kiss. Yen had only allowed it in the throws of passion, when their teeth would clash in their hurry to get at each other. And whores, well. They made it a point  _not_ to kiss.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the activity as much as Geralt did. True, they’d only shared a few, chaste brushing of lips as they laid down for the night and woke in the morning. Still, each time he’d catch the bards heartbeat quickening, the scent of contentedness filling the air.

So yes, finally forcing himself to confessing his feelings had definitely improved his life all round.  He even thought he was seeing some improvement in Jaskiers general disposition. The bard was ..  _lighter_ , in a way. He’d began to smile again,  _real_ smiles, not the ones he’d forced onto his face before. Ciri especially seemed to brighten his day, as she sat beside him, listening with rapt attention as Jaskier recounted an adventure or an exciting night spent at court. He was almost back to his old self.

_ Almost _ .

Some days, just getting the bard to sit up and work his legs was a challenge. He’d be irritable, completely devoid of any energy or motivation, and could only be coaxed to move with gentle words and unwavering patience. After, he’d fall back into the bed as if he’d just walked a week straight, and more often then not, the scent of tears followed not long after.

_ I’m sorry _ , he’d mewl, curling up on himself as if to make himself a smaller target; like he was  _ afraid  _ that he’d be  _ hurt. _ It broke Geralt heart, seeing his songbird so distressed, unsure what to do to help him. He found that simply holding Jaskier, pressing his lips to the top of his head and any other place he could reach, all the while whispering encouragement and reassurances, worked best. 

But once his little lark had calmed, the next challenge arose. Getting him to eat on  _ those  _ days was another problem. The bard needed the nutrients, the energy food provided his body, to heal. Yet he refused it, turning his mouth away from whatever Geralt was offering him, his hands still too injured to hold cutlery.  At times, Geralt was almost reduced to  _ pleading  _ with him, to just open his mouth and  _ eat. _

That situation could end in two ways.

One, Jaskier gave in and ate. Curling back against Geralt the second he could, apologizing to him and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. They’d hold on to each other, just feeling each others presence and taking comfort in it.

Two, Jaskier  _ continued  _ to refuse, and Geralt got so frustrated, he’d  _ throw _ the plate against the wall the second he’d brought it back down to the kitchen. Vesemir had already bitched about it, but  _ gods _ **,** the older wolf just didn’t  _ get _ it.

If he couldn’t even get Jaskier to  _ eat,  _ how was he going to help him with  _ anything else? _

It was a rotten feeling, being so  _ helpless _ . He needed to take out his frustrations somehow, somewhere Jaskier couldn’t hear or see him.  The bard would only feel even more guilty, would pull back into himself more, feel like even more of a burden than he already did. 

S o, their morning training and throwing plates would have to do. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, placing his hand over Geralts, squeezing it gently. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Now wasn’t the time to dwell on dark thoughts. Geralt had more important things to attend to.

“I’m fine.” He repeated, more softly, as he caught the bards worried glance. He leaned down, pressing a kiss against his lips. “The water should be warm enough by now. You can finally have that bath you’ve been wanting.”

“Thank you, Geralt.” A smile, small as it was, graced the bards fine features. “I know I’ve been difficult- No, don’t deny it, its _true_ \- but you’ve been. _So_ good to me. _Thank you_.”

“Hmm.” He still wasn’t used to praise, didn’t know how to handle it, and so he simply accepted it with a grunt and a nod. “You’re welcome, little lark. Let me go get that water.”

He’d already brought in the wooden tub, placing it as close to the fireplace as he could. Even with the fire going, the winters cold still crept into the castles, slipping in through the various nooks and crannies it could find. He’d be damned if he let his songbird fall ill before he’d properly healed. Hell, he’d do whatever he could to avoid  that at  _ all _ times. 

Retrieving the warmed water didn’t take long, and he easily lifted the large receptacle that had been heating up the water over the last few hours. Carrying it back as carefully as he could, over stairs and a l ong lengthy hallways,  he truly hoped this would help heighten Jaskiers mood.

Kicking the door open, Geralt crossed back into the room, quickly pouring the liquid into the tub, careful not to spill any of it onto the ground. A few minutes later, and it was all prepared.

“Ready?” He asked, turning to the bard now sitting at the edge of the bed. The bard hesitated, then nodded.

“Ready.” He agreed. The witcher moved forward, kneeling down before his songbird, sword-roughened fingers taking hold of the chemise he was wearing, looking up at the bard for permission. Another nod, and Geralt slowly lifted the fabric until it could be pulled over Jaskiers head and off.

The bards condition was, even after all these weeks of healing,  _ agonizing _ .

Scars crisscrossed over his chest, back, and sides. Some slowly fading into pale lines; others still raised, red and  _ angry looking _ . Ribs much too prominent, skin pulled taunt over them. A sunken belly, evidence of  _ how long _ his lark had gone without food. 

Years of experience of schooling his features the only thing keeping him from reacting, from growling out his  _ rage _ . One day, he’d find Cahir; make him  _ suffer _ for what he’d done to Jaskier. For the orders he’d given that harmed  _ his bard. _

Jaskier squirmed, uncomfortable. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror yet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t gotten a look at himself. Trepidation,  _anxiety_ building the longer Geralt stared, blankly, tainting his usual smell of sweet grass and sunshine. 

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, leaning forward to press his lips against one of the scars. Then another, and another, moving across every inch of the bards chest. Again and again, until he’d lavished attention on every single scar he could reach.

He got no reply, but the troubling scents he’d caught seemed to lessen.

He was helping.

Good.

Next came wool breeches, tenderly pulled down to reveal more scarred skin, and too thin legs. Around the ankles were the worst, months of too tight chains, rubbing against the skin until it was open,  _ raw  _ and infected. The scar tissue encircled his ankles, almost as thick as the chains had been. 

G eralt didn’t let himself dwell this time, swiftly tossing them onto the floor. 

The smallcloth would be next, a line they’d yet to cross. The only time the Witcher had completely undressed Jaskier was then night he’d rescued him, and he’d had no other choice then. They’d needed to assess the bards injuries, modesty be damned.

It was different now. He  _ needed _ permission.

“Can I?”

Blue eyes were staring down at him, filled to the brim with uncertainty. But then, a nod.

And so, as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid causing more fear, he divested his bard of the last bit of clothing. He kept his eyes trained on Jaskiers face, unwilling to push any more boundaries tonight.

“Alright?”

Another nod, and Geralt got back onto his feet, slinging his arms around the bard and lifting him bridal style, gently placing him into the water. Immediately, the bard pulled his knees up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them, careful to keep his hands above the waters surface.

Geralts heart clenched at the sight. His bard looked so  _ small _ , so  _ distraught _ ; tormented by insecurities about his body, and the new marks it carried. Marks that should  _ never  _ have graced his skin. 

It was hard to grasp, how the bard could call Geralt scars  _ beautiful _ ,  _ proof _ that he had survived, of the battles  he’d fought, and the lives he’d saved. Jaskiers scars were  _ proof  _ of how  _ strong _ he was, how he’d  _ endured.  _ Yet still, the bard felt the need to hide himself. 

He had no words for a situation like this, no concept of how to make this  _ better _ . 

How had Jaskier managed it when they’d first met?

He’d been unafraid. He’d carried on and showed Geralt compassion and care at every turn.

Geralt could do that.

And so, he grabbed the soap he’d brought along earlier, settling on the bards side.

“Gonna start with your shoulders and arms.”

“Alright.”

And so it began. As carefully as possible, Geralt cleaned his little lark, first his shoulders and arms, then his legs. All the while doing his best to mutter soothingly to him; how well he was doing, how  _ strong  _ he was.  That everything would be fine. 

Tending to Jaskiers back brought hisses of pain, skin still tender to the touch, and the Witcher did his best not to overwhelm the man. His little lark was shaking now, stubbornly blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

“You’re alright.” Geralt muttered, pressing a kiss to the bards temple, resting his forehead against soft, brown locks. “Just breathe. You’re not alone. I’m with you, little lark.”

The shaking didn’t stop, not completely. But it lessened, the bard turning his head to seek out a kiss that Geralt happily provided. They sat like that for a bit, sharing honey-sweet kisses, until the Witcher had to, rather unwillingly, pull back.

“Waters getting cold.” He explained quietly at the questioning look Jaskier gave him. “Still have to wash your hair.”

Sitting behind Jaskier, Geralt could finally bring out the small surprise he’d acquired for this very moment. It hadn’t been easy, Yen had only given in after Ciri had weighed in, but thankfully, she had given him what he’d asked for.

After wetting the mans hair, he pulled a small vile from beneath the towel, uncorking his with his teeth, his other hand still resting on the bards head.

The scent of Chamomile subtly filled the air, pleasantly unoffensive do his sensitive scent of smell. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to catch it just yet, but that could be remedied. Pulling his hand back, he dripped a good amount of the oil into his palm, placing the vial upright against the tub, so it wouldn’t spill. Rubbing his hands together, he spread the oil evenly between them, and got to work.

He started with the minstrels scalp, rubbing small, hopefully soothing circles against it. Jaskier made a soft sound of content, leaning his head back and into the Witchers touch. Geralt continued on, combing his fingers through his songbirds hair, until-

“Is that. Geralt, did you get me  _ Chamomile oil _ ?”  Jaskier turned his head to stare at him, awe written all over his face. 

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, finding it rather difficult to be regarded with such- fondness. Appreciation. Something akin to worship. “I thought it would-  _ help _ . Make you happy.”

“ Oh Geralt.” Jaskier smiled, moving to turn his body to face Geralt further, but only able to turn his torso so much. It was enough for what the bard intended to do, it seemed. One arm wrapped around Geralts neck, the other coming to rest against his chest. 

“You wonderful, sweet,  _ amazing _ man.” The words whispered against his lips as Jaskier leaned in close. “ _ Yes,  _ I’m  _ very  _ happy. Oh, I can’t believe you did this,  _ how _ did you even- actually, don’t tell me, I think I know, but  _ Geralt _ -”

G eralt, completely unable to take  _ this much  _ praise, cut him off with a kiss. Jaskier was  _ happy _ , he’d done  _ well _ . 

“Let me finish, little lark.” He muttered, caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride. “Water’s gonna be freezing soon.”

Jaskier, as usual, saw right through him. He could tell by the fond look in blue eyes, the lopsided smile curling the bards lips. He didn’t comment on it, thank the gods, and turned his back to the Witcher once more.

With all the care he could possibly muster, Geralt washed his loves hair; shielding the bards eyes as he washed out the oil. All the while, the bard was more relaxed that he’d seen him in weeks, leaning into each touch like a cat, rubbing his cheek against roughened palms whenever he got the chance.

Helping Jaskier out of the tub was a bit harder, now that he was wet and slippery, but they managed. The bard was thoroughly rubbed dry, and then redressed. Once he was laid in bed once more, Geralt stocked the fire one last time, and then moved to lift the tub and rid them of the water.

“Geralt, wait.” He turned to the bard, following as he beckoned him towards the bed. “Leave it until tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

Usually, the Witcher loathed leaving tasks to the next day. Do it often enough, and work would pile up until it couldn’t be finished in a single day. Jaskiers needs, however, won out against his sense of responsibility every time. There was nothing he’d deny his songbird.

And so, after stripping down to his breeches, Geralt joined him on the bed, carefully slipping under the covers, fully intending to pull the bard against his chest and sleep. Jaskier, however, seemed to have  _ other _ plans. 

“ You’re wonderful.” He breathed against the Witchers neck, placing a kiss against his skin, forcing a shiver along his spine. “I don’t have  _ words  _ to describe you, Geralt, and I’m a  _ bard _ . Its quite the problem.” Another kiss, this time a bit lower.

“ Jaskier-”

“Hush. Let me talk.” The bard scolded, wiggling a bit to push his body lower. Without his hands to help, it wasn’t an easy task, but as always, Jaskier prevailed. Another kiss against his collarbone, soft lips caressing him. “You’ve done so much for me. So much more than any other man, or women, I’ve  _ ever  _ been with. And there were many, as you well know.”

Oh, did he know. The thought of Jaskier with another was enough to get the Witchers blood boiling, caused jealousy and possessiveness to spread through him like  _ wildfire _ . He growled before he could stop himself.

“Hush, my love. I’m yours now.  _ All  _ yours.” The bard hummed, mouth traveling lower once more, brushing against a nipple, making Geralt gasp. His very first instinct was to pull back, to not allow for further demonstration of just how  _ sensitive  _ he was there; a source of great discomfiture all his life. He wasn’t a woman, it  _ shouldn’t _ have done anything for him and yet; any attention to the pale pink pebble of flesh brought a spike of pleasure with it. 

_Calm down. Its Jaskier. Your lark won’t hurt you. He won’t laugh at you._

“Is this alright?” Ever observant, Jaskier hadn’t missed his reactions, had read him like an open book; the only human alive that knew him well enough to  _ understand. _

“..Sensitive.” Geralt breathed out, closing his eyes, praying to the gods he hadn’t ruined the moment, hadn’t put Jaskier off.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

_Never stop touching me. Never stop being with me._

“Alright.” Another kiss was pressed to his nipple, and then another. Geralt trembled with it, the tenderness he was being treated with, so different from everything he’d known before. “You’re so beautiful, Geralt. So  _ perfect.  _ I could write a thousand songs about you, and it still wouldn’t be  _ enough _ .”

He wanted so badly to protest, to tell Jaskier that he was  _ anything  _ but beautiful, that he was a  _ monster _ \- 

_You’re not a monster to him. To him, you’re beautiful. Just as he is to you, scars or not._

And how was he supposed to convince Jaskier that he was the most gorgeous thing he’d seen in his long,  _ long _ life, when in return, he didn’t believe the bards words? He’d been many things before, but never a hypocrite. He wasn’t going to start now.

“ Can’t believe I can finally have this. Can finally be yours. .” Jaskier continued, grazing his teeth against the  delicate nub, pulling a small groan from the Witcher. “Yes, like that, let me hear you.  Show me how to make you feel  _ good _ .”

O nce again, the bard moved, pushed off the covers, straddling the Witchers hips. His forearms came to rest beside Geralts head, caging him in.

“I love you.” Jaskier breathed, forehead pressed against his. “I love you  _ so much _ , Geralt. More than my music, more than  _ anything _ . Every day, I think;  _ this is it, you can’t possibly love him any more than you already do. _ And somehow, every day, I fall even  _ more  _ in love with you. You’re a  _ wonder _ .” 

Geralt couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. His throat felt tight, not painfully so, but definitely uncomfortable.  _ Too much  _ and  _ not enough  _ at the same time. 

He wanted Jaskier to stop. He wanted Jaskier to  _ keep going _ .

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me, my love.”

More motion, and the bards head hovered over his chest, holding himself upright with his legs and forearms. Before Geralt could as much as form a coherent sentence, lips wrapped around his nipple, sucking ever so slightly.

“ _ Fuck _ .” He cursed, one hand coming up to tangle in brown hair, trying desperately not to grip too tightly, to  _ hurt _ . Jaskier hummed, subtly vibrations only adding to the pleasure he was giving. Geralt could feel himself harden against his breeches, cursing his body.

It had been too fucking long since he’d been with anyone. Being with the one he’d yearned for only made it  _~~ worse  ~~ better _ . 

Jaskier paused, and Geralt barely held back the whine of discontent trying to crawl its way out his throat. Luckily, he wasn’t kept waiting long.

The bard bit down,  _ gently _ , catching the raised nub between his teeth. A clever tongue lavishing it with small strokes. 

_Oh._

“ _ Ah!” _ The first moan of the night passed Geralts lip, and as much as he  _ wanted  _ to be embarrassed, he simply couldn’t. Jaskiers scent had turned sweeter,  _ heavier _ . The scent of lust and, as he’d recently learned,  _ love,  _ so strong it overpowered any other scent. The world narrowed to Jaskier. Nothing else existed but him. 

Jaskier switched sides, treating Geralts over peak just as he had the first, pulling more sounds from the Witcher. He’d never been overly vocal, inside the bedchamber or out, had always forced himself to hold them back. But with Jaskier, they spilled over into the air oh so easily. 

Gods, he  _ wanted _ him. Had never wanted anyone this  _ much, _ this  _ badly. _ His longing was  _ all consuming.  _

He was trembling now, hips twitching upwards in barely there movements, the hand not currently curled into the bards hair coming to rest against his side, just resisting the urge to hold on  _ tight. _

“So beautiful.” Jaskier husked, moving even lower, brushing his nose and lips against Geralts ribs, against his stomach, down to his navel- if he had any trouble balancing himself without his hands, he didn’t show it.

That very thought snapped Geralt out of his haze.

“Jaskier, wait.”

“Too much?”

“No, I-” Gods, even to himself his voice sounded gravely with  _ want _ . “Its too soon. You’re still hurt. This can wait.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to _ wait.”  _ Came the stubborn reply. “I  _ want  _ you. And I know I can’t- not- not  _ all  _ of it. But  _ this  _ I can do. If you don’t want this, if you aren’t  _ ready _ , then I’ll stop. But please, Geralt, don’t make me stop out of worry. I’m not in pain, I’m enjoying myself. Please, my wolf,  my darling,  _ let me _ .”

And  _ fuck, _ how was he supposed to refuse his bard after  _ that _ ?

“If it hurts, we  _ stop. Immediately. _ ”

“Yes,  _ yes,  _ I promise.” Jaskier eagerly agreed, fluttering kisses across the Witchers stomach. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve thought about this, how many times I came in my own hand, imagining it was  _ yours _ , wondering how you’d feel, how you’d  _ taste.” _

And fuck, those sweet whispers conjured up a million pictures in Geralt head, of the bard on his knees, stroking himself as he sucked him off; Jaskier on his back, legs spread wide, open and  _ dripping  _ with his seed, and still begging for  _ more _ ; Jaskier above him, riding him with abandon-

“Jaskier.” He growled, his cock throbbing against its confines, desperately seeking any friction it could find.

“Get it out, Geralt, I can’t-”

His hands had found the strings of his breeches before Jaskier could even finish his sentence, fumbling awkwardly for a moment before,  _ finally, _ his aching cock hit the cold air.

“Oh.  _ Oh my _ .” 

Hot breath brushed against him, making the Witcher shiver from the top of his head to his toes. He’d been told many times that he was rather, ah,  _ gifted.  _ On any other occasion it hadn’t meant much to him. But Jaskiers scent had spiked, arousal so obvious in the way his mouth had gone slack, Geralt couldn’t help but  _ preen  _ under the attention. 

“How have you kept this  _ monster  _ from me for so long?” Jaskier asked, sounding awed, cutting off Geralts reply with a kiss to its tip. “ Truly, you’re  _ magnificent,  _ even better than I’d  _ ever _ imagined _.” _

“ _ Jaskier.”  _ Geralt growled out, urging the bard on with a small tug to his hair. Being laid out before the bard without being  _ touched _ was torture, his hips rocking upwards, desperate to feel that pretty mouth on him  _ now _ . 

His lark had mercy on him, thank the  _ gods _ , pressing kiss after kiss along his length, from root to tip, making him moan,  _ aching  _ for more, to feel the wet warmth of the bards mouth surrounding him. 

The bard, on the other hand, seemed in no rush. He took his time, nuzzling and kissing and licking along Geralts cock, running his nose over the entire length, inhaling deeply and letting out a pleased little sound.

“ Never taken a cock this size. Do you think I can take it all? I  _ want  _ to take it all, stuff my mouth full, feel you sliding down my throat. Would you like that?”

“ _ Yes _ .” Geralt hissed, hips rocking up with just a bit more force, rubbing his tip against lush lips. “ _ Yes, _ Jaskier,  _ fuck,  _ don’t make me  _ wait _ -”

“Hmm. You’re right, darling. We’ve waited for his long enough.”

Lips wrapped around his tip, held still, the tip of his bards tongue dipping into the small slit at the head, and Geralt wanted to  _ howl  _ with it, wanted to  _ revel  _ in the hot surge of  _ bliss.  _ Except he wasn’t given long enough to  _ make  _ a sound, before Jaskier was taking him deeper,  _ deeper  _ still; swallowing every inch with happy sounds vibrating against his erection. Geralts vision whited out. 

No one,  _ no one _ , had ever taken him so well, so  _ enthusiastically _ . Winding his hand harder into those brown locks, he stilled the bards head, heart beating faster than he could ever remember it before, panting heavily as he tried to regain a  _ semblance  _ of control.

“Wait, m’close, just- give me a second.” He muttered, glancing down at Jaskier from half lidded eyes. The bard had one brow quirked, the question quite clear. “..Don’t want it to end yet.”

The admission cost him, but the minstrels reaction  _ definitely  _ made up for it. He moaned around him,  squirming under the witchers gaze, hips rocking forward, humping into  _ nothing _ ,  every bit as needy and wanting as Geralt felt.  Gods above, it  _ did  _ things to him.

He forced himself to breathe deeply, to calm himself. Stave off his peak for just a bit longer. Nothing had prepared him for the intensity of laying with the one he  _ truly  _ loved. Pitiful whines and soft mewls escaping past the bards lips again and again as he was held in place. 

“Feel too _fucking good_.” The Witcher rasped, loosening his grip on silky strands. “Fucking perfect, Jas, _little_ _lark_ , driving me _insane._ ”

A nother moan, and Geralts restraint broke. 

“Go on then, sweet thing, show me how much you want my  _ cock _ .” 

And oh, did Jaskier  _ show  _ him.

Eagerly bobbing his head, lapping at his tip, twisting his tongue around the sensitive glands, only to swallow Geralt down again. Taking in another inch with each dip of his head until Geralt hit the back of his throat, gagging in his eagerness to take the Witcher whole.

“Easy,  _ easy,  _ don’t have to take it all, doing so good,  _ being so good for me _ .” Geralt had never before been reduced to babbling in his life,  certainly not during something as  _ simple  _ as a blowjob,  _ but now- “So good,  _ fuck,  _ fuck- _ ”

Stubbornly, Jaskier tried again,  _ again _ \- several things happened at once.

Jaskiers throat relaxed, giving way to Geralts cock as he slid in completely.

Geralts hips rocked up, unable to contain himself any longer, pleasure too bright, restraint to frayed to hold on any longer.

Jaskier gave the filthiest sound of pleasure Geralt had ever heard, and it sounded like the most alluring, most  _ sublime _ song he’d ever witnessed. 

There was no stopping it now.

Geralt came with such force, he swore he’d passed out for a split second, drowning in the bards scent, hips giving small, stuttering jerks upwards as shot load after load of his seed down Jaskiers throat.

And gods, Jaskier was taking  _ everything _ he had to offer, swallowing over and over, making more of those delicious sounds that Geralt wanted to burn into his memory, and never forget. Even when he was spent, Jaskier continued to suckle at his tip, greedy for more. 

As much as he wanted to continue, wanted to release inside Jaskiers mouth and hole as often as he could, he wasn’t going to. He’d put enough stress on the bards, still healing, body. There would be a time and a place, when Geralt could take his songbird apart, piece by piece, and put him back together. It simply wasn’t _today_.

“Come here, little lark, my sweet little bird. Did so well, so _perfect_ for me. Let me touch you, let me _kiss_ you.”

The second Jaskier had pulled off his cock, he was gently rolled onto his back, blanketed by Geralts body as he laid above him, setting his mouth to the task of ravishing the bards mouth with teeth and tongue and lips.

“Geralt, _Geralt_ , please-” Jaskier whined as Geralt pulled back to let him breathe, spreading his legs just wide enough that Geralt could comfortably fit into the V of his hips.

“I’ve got you, sweet thing, _my lark._ ” Geralt moved his hand downwards, making quick work of the laces and fabric denying him access to what he wanted. Once freed, Geralt took the time to look down, examine the prick he was now holding.

It was just as gorgeous as the rest of his bard, flushed a pale pink in its excitement, twitching eagerly in his hand as if  _ begging  _ for attention, attention Geralt would readily give. He brushed his thumb across the head, gathering up the drops of precome and spreading them around in small circles, only to hear his lover cry out in pleasure. 

“Going to take care of you, make you feel so good, Jas.” He whispered, hand sliding lower to firmly grasp the mans cock, giving it a slow stroke. “And when you’re ready, when you’re back on your feet, I’m going to throw you back down on this bed, and  _ fuck you _ . Won’t ever want anyone else  _ ever  _ again, songbird, only me.”

It was all it took, as Jaskier came with a wail, back arching and head thrown back.

His songbird was breathtakingly beautiful  in the throws of passion, and Geralt greedily took it all in, every twitch of his face, every mewl and gasp and moan the bard granted him. 

A nd when Jaskier turned his head, eyes still shut, blindly seeking a kiss, Geralt gave him what he wanted. 

Trading kisses and breathing each others air until they both fell sound asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! New Chapter! This one is once more focused more on psychological trauma.
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful comments, and all the kudos and bookmarks <3 You guys rock!

“Geralt, I’ve been _locked up_ in this room, in this _bed_ , for months now!” Jaskier huffed, crossing his arms against his chest. “I’m losing my _mind.”_

“You’re healing, my lark. You need rest.” The Witcher replied evenly, nuzzling his nose against Jaskiers neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I’ve _been_ resting. Please Geralt, I haven’t breathed fresh air in- _gods,_ I can’t even remember how long it’s been.” He whined, shifting until he could face the white wolf. “I just want to watch you train with the others. Just for a _little bit_.”

“Trainings outside, in the yard. Your legs are stronger than they were, but they won’t carry you that far just yet.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I have _you,_ don’t I? You could carry me.” It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, Geralt having to lug him around like an invalid, but if it got him just a few hours _outside-_ well, he’d take it. “Please, my wolf. I’ll stay exactly where you leave me, I won’t try to walk on my own, I won’t do _anything_ but sit there and watch.” 

The Witcher sighed, running the tip of his nose along soft skin until he reached the spot right below the bards ear. He was _considering_ it, and Jaskier sensed the chance immediately. All his love needed was another, tiny push-

“You do me this, ah, _favor_ and perhaps I’ll be persuaded to return it later tonight. Do that _thing_ you like so much-”

“Minx.” He couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him at the growled word, yet already he could feel Geralts cock hardening against his thigh.  “Your word that you’ll do as your told, for once, little lark.”

“Yes,  _ yes!  _ Anything, Geralt. I promise I’ll be good.” 

The hardness against his thigh twitched, his own cock responding slowly, slowly filling out in his breeches. Eyes fluttering shut, he gave a quiet hum, oh so tempted to allow this distraction. They’d been touching like this at least once a day since that first night; Geralt a greedy, but generous lover. Truthfully, Jaskier had never enjoyed sex more than he did now. 

A rough hand slid down his side, fingertips running along the hem of his breeches, dipping in ever so slightly.  _ Oh _ , Jaskier  _ adored  _ those hands, large and strong and roughened by years of swordplay; and still capable of the softest of touch. Geralt held him like he was made of glass, like he was  _ precious,  _ handling him with the greatest of care, always. 

Some night, after they’d spent, the Witcher would spend literal  _ hours  _ pressing kisses against every inch of skin, sparing not a single scar or birthmark.  Whisper to him how much the bard amazed him, how marvelous he was; how much he  _ mattered _ .

And Jaskier allowed it all, even as the voice in his head hollered and spit in fury at these blatant lies. Geralt  _ needed  _ this,  his own strange brand of penance. Each reverent kiss an apology, each brush of hands a confession.

_ I love you, Forgive me, Forgive me please! _

Geralt was a fool to think Jaskier hadn’t forgiven him, but no amount of times Jaskier assured him that he did, that his Witcher  _ was  _ forgiven, seemed to soothe his guilt. 

“Where’ve you gone, songbird?” Words breathed against his ears snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“Nowhere, darling. I’m right here. Just thinking.” 

“About?”

“How gently you touch me.” Jaskier replied truthfully, but at Geralts furrowed brows quickly added “And how much I love it! Its wonderful, Geralt, truly. Not that I don’t enough a bit of, ah-  _ rough  _ handling in  _ certain _ situations, but- yes. I  _ like _ it when you’re gentle with me.” 

“Those  _ certain  _ situations will have to wait a while longer.” Geralt rumbled, pressing their foreheads together, eyes falling shut. “But when the times comes, and you wish it, we can see about your  _ other _ desires.”

“ For now, I  _ desire  _ to go outside. So, my strong, handsome Witcher. Will you grant me my wish?” 

Geralt grunted, huffed, and finally gave a nod. 

“Can’t deny you anything, little lark.”

Jaskier beamed. 

* * *

Not a half hour later, and Jaskier was sitting on a chair Eskel had dragged outside, dressed in his thickest clothes, wrapped in a blanket, and feeling considerably less caged in than he had since before his nightmare had begone. 

Vesemir had regarded him for quite some time, as the other Witchers set up for training. The oldest of the wolves had spoken to him preciously little, the few times he’d brought up food or water. Jaskier didn’t feel dislikes, exactly, by Vesemir. In fact, the Witcher reminded him more of a wary animal, that had seen too much  evil in its lifetime.  Jaskier took no offense. If the wolf was half as old as Jaskier thought, as no one seemed to know his  _ exact  _ age, and what he’d seen during his travels with Geralt- well, it made  _ sense. _

Witchers weren’t meant to get attached, least of all to humans. They were frail, lived short lives, and often had less than gracious intentions when they tried to befriend a non-human. And even when they had no ulterior motive, they would quite quickly pass away and leave nothing behind but grief. 

“Warm enough, bard?” Lambert teased, quirking a brow at him as he grinned. “Should I perhaps get you a cup of tea? A bowl of soup, maybe?”

“You could get out of my face so I can pay attention.” He quipped in reply. He hadn’t met the black haired witcher before, but Geralt had warned him. Lambert was an ass, with a sharp tongue and a tendency to gloat, but not a bad person. At least, according to Geralt. 

“My, my! The  bard has fire !” Lambert crowed, strangely delighted with the rude response. “ I wonder, does that extend to the bedchaimbers-”

“Watch your mouth, Lambert, if you wish to keep all your teeth.” Geralt warned, though he didn’t even bother looking up from his sword, checking it over for any signs of needing tending. 

“Awfully prickly there,  _ white wolf _ .” 

“Quit your bickering.” Vesemir gruffed, cutting off any reply Geralt might have had. “Sparring first. Eskel, you’re with Lambert. Geralt, with me.”

And so, training began.

It was fascinating, at first. Witcher against Witcher, something rarely seen by mere mortals like Jaskier. Geralt had once said that they tried to avoid fighting each other out in the world. Partly because it didn’t help their reputation, and partly because there were  _ so few _ of them left. 

He’d seen Geralt in combat more times than he could count, watched him dodge monsters and humans with fluid, unearthly grace. Watched him sink his sword hilt deep into whatever was threatening them.  The Witcher had taken his fair share of injury, of course, no one could spend a century battling evil and  _ not  _ get hurt. Still, somehow, Jaskier couldn’t imagine witnessing Geralt being tossed into a dirt by am opponent. 

Until today.

Vesemir seemed to anticipate each move his white wolf made, and countered it with ease. Yet Geralt didn’t seem agitated. If anything, he seemed to be _enjoying_ himself. Grinning as he got back on his feet, circling his former teacher, searching for any kind of weakness, any opportunity to take a swing.

Even with dulled blades, each crash of metal against metal rung out across the yard, echoing as the sound jumped off the crumbling stone walls. Grunts of effort mixing into the melody of battle. 

His next  inhale took more effort than Jaskier was used to, the air somehow  _ heavier _ . Another clashing of swords, and his heart beat faster. 

Another clashing of blades, and the bright, warm light of the sun seemed to fade away. He felt cold settle into his chest, spreading along his body, to his stomach, his throat, his arms and legs. 

Darkness surrounded him, the kind of darkness he’d only experienced once before, when he’d been locked away by Cahir and his men. 

_ It can’t be. Geralt saved you. You’re safe. _

He was shaking,  _ trembling  _ like a leaf, heartbeat rising along with his  _ panic _ . 

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t inhale enough air, no matter how desperately he gulped it down, and yet he didn’t stop, taking breath after breath, desperate to fill his lungs. 

To no avail. 

His mind grew clouded, his view blurred. 

_ He was back in the dungeon, back in the darkness.  A lone, naked and  exposed, and  so, so hungry.  _

_ The chains wrapped around his ankles burned and stung and held him down, no chance at escape, no chance of seeing Geralt ever again.  _

_ They’d torture and starve him until they killed him, either by accident or because they’d grown tired of him.  _

Limbs too heavy to move, Jaskier tipped over onto his side, gasping for air, panting like a dog that’d just chased its prey to the end of the world, unaware of anything around him. 

Could only hear the laughing of the soldiers as they beat him, the rattling of metals as he tried to move his legs. Could see nothing but darkness. Feel nothing but the cold seeping into his bones. 

_ It was all a dream. None of it happened. He never came for you. _

_ He’ll  _ never  _ come for you. _

“-ier!”

He knew that voice.

“-skier!”

The bard blinked, searching for the source of it, turning his head with the last of his energy. 

“Jaskier.”

Golden eyes the last he saw before he fell unconscious.

He came to gradually, like he did after a good nights rest, when he wanted nothing more than to remain asleep. Except, he didn’t feel rested in the slightest. 

He felt-  _ awful _ . Depleted of all his strength. How exactly had that  _ happened _ ?

As he glanced around, he quickly recognized his surroundings. He was back in Geralts room, back in the bed he’d been  _ begging _ to leave for days. 

And there he sat, his Witcher, on a chair beside him as he had weeks ago, when Jaskier had first woken up after his escape, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Geralt? What happened?”

Geralt hummed, running a hand over his handsome face. The bard waited, patient, until his Witcher found the words he wanted to speak.

“You passed out.” 

“I- Yes, I gathered that, but  _ why _ ? What are you hiding?”

There were many things about his wolf that Jaskier wholeheartedly appreciated. Geralt was noble, kind and caring. But most of all, he was  _ direct. _ Said what he thought, without pomp and fanfare. Avoidance from the Witcher hailed trouble.

“Vesemir thinks it was some sort of-” Geralt stopped, sighed, and regrouped. “He thinks something about our training took your mind  _ back  _ to when- when you were captured. So much so that you  _ believed  _ it.” 

Jaskier frowned, straining to recover the events that occurred before he once more woke in this bed.

“Do you recall anything at all, little lark?”  The Witcher softly inquired, brushing a strand of hair from the bards forehead. 

“I remember feeling..  _ cold. _ Like the sun had set long ago, and would never rise again.” The minstrel shuddered. “Cold and- alone. Scared. And-”

“And what, sweet bard?” Came the reply, encouraging him to go on. 

“It was like I couldn’t breathe.” 

His words came out hushed and weak, filled with  _ shame.  _ He’d failed again, shown how pathetic he was, more than ever before. Had passed out for  _ no reason at all _ , in front of  _ everyone _ .

G ods, he couldn’t believe he’d ridiculed himself,  _ and  _ Geralt, in front of what was effectively the Witchers  _ family,  _ his father and brothers. What kind of man got so lost in his thoughts that they lost sight of reality? 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, turning away from his wolf. “I’m so sorry Geralt.”

The bed shifted, and he found himself once more held tight against, back against a strong, wide chest.

“ _ Don’t. _ ” His white wolf growled, nosing behind his ear, rubbing soothingly along his side. “Don’t apologize, sweet lark. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Done nothing wrong?” Jaskier echoed flatly. “I passed out over  _ nothing _ . I lost my mind, it seems, over  _ nothing _ . I was safe, and warm, and better taken care of than  _ ever  _ before, and  _ still _ \- I’m  _ weak _ , Geralt. I’ll never be your equal, I’ll never be  _ worthy of you.  _ And now they’ve all seen it, know the  _ truth  _ about me _ .  _ I’m a pathetic burden, a waste of your time, you deserve so much better than a- a  _ useless bard. _ ”

“ _ Enough!”  _ Jaskier flinched, the world growled out against his ear sounding more like the snarl of a beast than a man. The same voice that had told him to  _ leave. _ Strong hands pulled him onto his back, rolled and manured him until he was facing Geralt once again.

“Do  _ not.  _ Talk about yourself like that. I mean it, Jaskier.” The Witcher rasped, his palm coming to rest against the bards cheek. “You are  _ not  _ weak, or pathetic. You’re not a  _ burden. _ ”

“ Then what, in your mind, am I?” Jaskier challenged, stubbornly refusing to return the tenderness he was being given. 

“Hurt.” Came the simple reply. “You’re  _ hurt _ , Jaskier, nothing more.”

“For fucks sake, Geralt, I’m  _ fine,  _ I’m  _ healing _ ! Everything but my hands-”

“Not all hurt is felt with the body, little lark. Some are of the soul, and mind. Much more difficult to heal. I know this to be true, sweet bard, because it took the most wonderful creature on his earth  _ decades _ to heal mine.” 

Jaskier blinked. Then blinked again. Didn’t know what to reply.

“I don’t take your meaning.” 

That would have to do.

“When we met, I was- hmm.” Geralt broke off, considered his next words carefully, it seemed. “Jaded. I’d seen little good in the world, in people, human or not. Encountered greed, and cruelty and senseless killing, again and again. Was treated with contempt and hatred, at every corner. At best, I was tolerated, and only as long as I was  _ needed _ . 

I  thought- for so long, that I didn’t  _ deserve _ anything else. My own mother had left me on the steps of Kaer Morhen. What worth could I ever have, if my own  _ mother _ abandoned me?”

“You never told me-” Jaskier interrupted, only to be silenced by roughened fingertips pressed against his lips.

“Let me finish, my love. You may ask any question  _ after _ , as many as you like.” Only when the Witcher was sure he would not again be interrupted, he continued.

“Then, one day, I found myself in a shitty inn, and met  _ you _ . You drove me crazy, for so many reasons. Always cheerful, always  _ talking,  _ singing about how noble I was, how  _ good _ . Not all of them were exactly truthful, but even so. You sang my praise to any fool that would listen, even when I mistreated you. Forgave me, over and over, when you had no reason to.  When I didn’t  _ deserve  _ it.

You never left me. Not until I forced you to.”

It took real restraint not to talk then. Jaskier bit his lip.

“You were the first human I’d come across that defied everything I  _ thought _ I knew. That I didn’t  _ need _ to be alone, that I  _ wasn’t _ the monster I believed to be. That just because I was left behind before, didn’t mean I’d be left again, and life had more to offer than monsters and coin. And, that needing, and being needed by another,  _ isn’t _ a weakness.

You’ve changed my life for the better, in so many ways, Jaskier.  It’d take days to recount them all. You taught me acceptance, and love and-  _ trust _ again. To see more than darkness in the world, when I had all but  _ forgotten _ the light.

A weak man would never have managed all that.”

Jaskier, for his part, was quite overwhelmed. He’d always thought Geralts inability to take a praise rather odd. Now, he understood it perfectly. Technically, he’d done all those things, in a way, but surly he didn’t _deserve_ all that commendation.

“Why, Geralt- that was possibly more words than you usually speak in a month.”

Yes, deflecting. That would work.

Geralt said nothing, regarding him with a fond look, brushing his thumb along the bards eyebrow.

“You’re stronger than any human I’ve ever met, my sweet, wondrous little lark. I will do my best to heal you, as you’ve healed me; love you, as you have loved me.”

“Fuck, Geralt. How am I supposed to _reply_ to that?” The bard questioned, moving to press his face against the Witchers neck. He wasn’t going to cry, not again. But gods he _wanted_ to.

“You don’t have to reply at all, little lark. Words aren’t always necessary.”

Jaskier hummed, allowing his eyes to fall shut, comforted by his wolfs scent, and the slow, steady beating of his heart. After a while silence, Jaskier did come up with something necessary to say.

“I love you, Geralt.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand more angst. Sorry. I couldn't stop myself.
> 
> Thank you guys for all the support <3

Geralt was nervous. There was no denying it.

It was a special day, after all.

“Alright bard. I want you to try and stretch out your fingers. _Slowly_. If it hurts too much, _stop_.”

Jaskier nodded, then glanced at Geralt as if he needed permission to do as Yen said. Geralt gave an encouraging nod, attempting not to show just how nerve-racking this very moment was. Of course, even if this did go well, his songbird was still far from plucking away at a lute again and yet- Geralt wanted  _ so badly  _ for Jaskier to succeed. 

Jaskiers episode in the yard had worried the Witcher more than he was willing to admit. 

If his little lark couldn’t cope with the sound of battle, how were they supposed to go out on the Path together? True, he left Jaskier behind when he did most of his monster hunting, but there was no guarantee they wouldn’t be attacked by soldiers or bandits. He couldn’t fight off their assailants  _ and _ calm Jaskier down before he fell back into  that  _ place  _ his mind took him to.

_ D on’t think about that yet. Ciri will need at least a year of training before you can go back onto the Path.  _

They’d have time. Geralt would find a way to fix this. For now, he had to focus on Jaskier.

“Whenever you’re ready, bard.” Yen mocked, drawing Geralts eyes back to his bards hands. They were still not looking entirely.. _right_. It looked like the man was trying to form claws with his hands, fingers curled in towards his palm. But they were no longer discolored, or sticking out in the wrong direction. Geralt considered that a win. 

“I just. What if I _can’t_?” Jaskier asked quietly, head lowered to stare at his hands. “What if they’re just- _stuck_ like this.” 

Yen snorted, and Geralt shot her a glare. Wanted to tell her to stop being such a _bitch_ to his little lark. Unfortunately, that would for certain start an argument, the last thing Jaskier needed right now. So, instead, he knelled down before him; holding delicate hands in his palm, turning them palm up. 

“You won’t know until you try.” He said, brushing his thumb against tender skin. “It’ll be alright, little lark.” 

J askier took a deep breath, exhaled, and nodded. 

“Alright. _Alright_. I can do this.” 

Ever so slowly, his fingers stretched, millimeter by millimeter. Straightening until they were almost halfway stretched out. It was Geralts turn to hold his breath, praying,  _ praying _ that this was it, this was the good news they’d been waiting for-

“ _Ah!_ ” 

At the sound of pain, Geralts head snapped up, only to see his bards face contorted with pain. 

“I can’t.” Jaskier whispered, fingers curling back in on themselves. “That’s- I can’t.” 

“Jas.” The Witcher sighed, reaching out to cup his minstrels cheeks. “Its still early. They might just need more time to heal.” 

“Let me see.”   


Geralt moved aside, allowing the sorceress access. Watched her take the bards hands into her own, turn them over, carefully inspecting them.

“It might just be a similar problem you’ve been having with your legs.” She finally concluded. “Your hands have been in one position so much, the muscles and tendons have become unused to movement.” 

“So we just- practice moving them?” Jaskier asked, looking up at her. 

“Helped with your legs, didn’t it?” 

And yes, Geralts little exercises with the bards leg had absolutely been a success. His sweet bard could now walk short stretches all on his own. No sign of pain or discomfort. And while he still tired rather quickly, it was  _ so much better  _ than before. 

“You’ll need to be careful not to push too hard.” Yennefer continued, dropping Jaskiers hands unceremoniously. “A few times a day, try to stretch them, and with some luck it’ll get better.”

T hat was, if not  _ good  _ news, at least not  _ bad  _ news. They could work on this, there was still a  _ chance _ . 

“Thank you, Yen.” Geralt glanced at Yen. 

“Yes, thank you, Yennefer.” Jaskier added, a small smile curling his lips. “You’ve been very- helpful.” 

“ _Helpful?_ ” She quipped, crossing arms against her chest. “I’ve been an _angel._ Do you know how long it took to fix you up? Make your brews? Check in on you every other day? And all of it _without payment._ ” 

Ah. Payment. He’d almost forgotten that. 

“In fact, _without_ me, Geralt wouldn’t even have gotten to you in the _first_ place.”

“Then thank you for that, too.” Jaskier replied. “I’d shake your hand but, well.” 

“Cheeky.” Yennefer hummed, turning her attention to Geralt. “So, shall we talk payment?”

“Now?” Geralt groaned, rising back up onto his feet. 

“ _Yes now_. Gods know, the second you two are left alone it’s likely you won’t be seen again for _hours_. And when you _do_ reappear, you smell an awful lot of _se_ -”

“Aaaalright.” Jaskier cut in, cheeks turning bright pink. “Now is fine, Geralt, _really_ _.”_

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Yennefer replied sweetly. 

“Name your price, then.” Geralt said, trying very hard not to smile at his little larks sudden embarrassment. He’d never thought the mere mention of their time together would have Jaskier acting to bashful. Not with the filth his little bard whispered into the Witchers skin when they were together. 

“Hmm.” She tapped her finger against her lips, looking to be considering. Geralt would put money on this being an act. “Well, you don’t have any coin right now, so that’s not an option. You won’t be leaving Kaer Morhen with Ciri here for a while longer, I assume?”

The Witcher just nodded. 

“Well, how about this then. Once you and the others deem the little cub fully trained, I’d like her to come with me.” 

Geralt froze.

“ _No_.”

“Come where?” Jaskier inquired. 

“Travel the continent. Learn more than I can teach her here. I could introduce her to other sorceresses. Triss, Keira, Phillipa. There’s so much out there to _experience_ , so many things to _see_. I’m sure she’d enjoy herself.”

“ _I said no.”_ Geralt growled, fists clenched at his sides. “She’s not going anywhere Yen. Not without us. Find some other payment.”

“Geralt, surely you don’t mean to keep that poor girl tied to your side forever?” Yen scoffed, very firmly standing her ground. “What’s your plan here? Train her, and then take her onto the path with you? Do you really think that’s what she _wants_?”

“You don’t _know_ what she wants.” He ground out, taking another step towards her. “I’m not going to let you whisk her across the continent and show her off to your _witch_ friends, like- like a prized _poodle_.”

Silence. Geralt wouldn’t budge, not on this. Ciri was _his_ responsibility. He’d ignored her for far too long, turned away from here when she’d _needed_ him. He wasn’t going to do that again. He’d keep her close, keep her _safe_.

“ _That’s_ what you think I’m planning?” Her words came out sharp, near hissed in her anger. “That she’s some- some _pet_ to me, to show off and _brag_ about?”

“What else would you want with her.”

“Geralt-” Jaskier cut in, brushing the back of his hand against Geralts side.

“ _Stay out of this.”_

He loved Jaskier, he truly did, but  _ this- This  _ was Geralts call. The hand on his side fell away, and before he could mourn its loss, Yen was in his face again.

“You are the most _ungrateful, most_ _vile_ -” She seethed, the air around her beginning to crackle with power. “It couldn’t _possibly be_ that I’d want whats _best_ for _her._ To help her learn _anything_ she can to _protect_ herself.”

“ _We’re_ teaching her to protect herself!” The Witcher argued, baring his teeth. “I asked you to help her learn how to control her powers, _that’s all_. “

“Oh _please_ , teaching her how to swing around a sword isn’t going to keep her _safe_. Cahir isn’t going to just send soldiers after her! What if he sends, I don’t know, _a mage_? What _then_?” 

“Then _I’ll_ be there to help her!” Geralt thundered, crowding into her space, growling down at her. “She doesn’t need anyone else looking to _extort_ her for her abilities, much less someone that hasn’t shown loyalty to _anyone but herself_. Ciri is _mine_ to look after, and I would rather use her as _bruxa bait_ than send her off into the world with _you_.”

H e was blasted across the room a split second later, and before he had a chance to recover, the door slammed shut behind her. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier had jumped up, kneeling beside the Witcher. “Are you alright?”

“ _Fine_.” He growled, ignoring the ache in his back as he stood. “Damn that woman. I can’t believe she thinks I’d let her take Ciri.”

Instead of agreeing to him, Jaskier remained silent, fidgeting.

“..Spit it out Jaskier.” 

“I just think that maybe you uh. Hmm. Might have been a bit _harsh_?” The bard confessed quietly. 

“What the _fuck_ do you mean?” He demanded, rounding on his bard. 

“Well. You know that Ciri and I spend time together and- she really _likes_ Yen, and she likes learning new things from her and- You said yourself a life on the Path wasn’t exactly _great_ for children.” He sighed, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he paused. “Maybe, learning from the others Yen mentioned- Wouldn’t be all that bad?”

“ _Wouldn’t be all that bad?_ ” Geralt repeated, absolutely furious. Jaskier had to be _fucking kidding._ “You’re telling me give that little girl over to _Yen_? How do you think that would end?!”

“I think it might be okay, Geralt. Yen cares about Ciri, I know she does-”

“Yennefer doesn’t care about _anyone_ than herself! Never has. You can’t seriously think that she’s doing this for Ciri! _Tell me_ you are not _that stupid_.”

“She cared enough about you to help get me back, and save my life, didn’t she?” Jaskier argued quietly. “She’s still here, helping me, and Ciri. Truly, Geralt, I think-”

“Then _don’t. Think._ ” Geralt snapped, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. “You don’t know _anything_ about Yen, _or_ Ciri. You have no _idea_ what Yen would do to get her hands on more power, what she’d try and turn Ciri _into_. She knew I’d found Ciri when she came to me, she’s probably been planning this all along.”

“I do know!” Jaskier protested, now obviously irritated, his scent spiking with anger. “You’re trying to protect her, and that’s _fine_ Geralt, really, its wonderful how much you care about her. But isn’t there just a small possibility that you’re overreacting? Yen isn’t exactly _nice_ to me, but I’ve seen her with Cirilla and- it looks to me like she really does care about her.”

“ _I don’t care what you think_!” Geralt barked, the words dripping like venom from his lips. “What do you know about anything? All you’ve ever fucking _done_ is sleep around, and play your lute and _get yourself into trouble._ You can’t even look after yourself, and you’re trying to give _me_ advise on how to keep _Ciri_ safe?! “

“That’s not exactly _fair_ -” Jaskier injected weakly. 

“ _Life. Isn’t. Fair._ You’d think you’d have _learned_ that by now.” Geralt growled between his teeth, turning again from the bard. “I’m going to train. _Try_ keeping yourself out of trouble for a few hours.” 

The door slammed shut a second time that day, the sound ringing in the Witchers ear. 

It didn’t matter. 

Ciri was safe with him. She didn’t  _ need  _ anyone else,  least of all some witch with questionable motives.  He couldn’t  _ believe _ Jaskier would argue in favor of this ridiculous plan, that Ciri would be better off with  _ anyone _ but them. He’d moved hell and high water for that girl, he’d gotten her safe and sound to Kaer Morhen,  and he’d continue to do so. 

Just the thought of the little lion cub wandering around the continent with no one but Yennefer to keep her safe- his blood  _ boiled  _ with rage, rushing in his ear until he could hear nothing else; not the sound of his sword hacking away at one of the dummies they’d made to help Ciri train. Not the wind howling around around him. 

He was  _ right _ . He  _ was.  _

Things would be fine. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, a couple chapters back I asked if you guys wanted longer chapter with less frequent updates, OR daily, but short chapters. I've decided on a bit of a compromise. I'll try my best to update every other day, just so I can take a day off inbetween and don't feel too pressured to throw something out every day. I hope that works for you guys! If I do miss a day or two, I hope you guys can forgive me <3
> 
> I got some requests for more Eskel and Papa Vesemir, so here you go!
> 
> Thank you guys, for all your support, the lovely comments, and all the kudos! I appreciate each and every one of you <3

“ _I don’t care what you think_ _!” Geralt barked, the words dripping like venom from his lips. “What do you know about anything? All you’ve ever fucking_ _done_ _is sleep around, and play your lute and_ _get yourself into trouble._ _You can’t even look after yourself, and you’re trying to give_ _me_ _advise on how to keep_ _Ciri_ _safe?! “_

  
  


“ _That’s not exactly_ _fair_ _-” Jaskier injected weakly._

  
  


“ _Life. Isn’t. Fair._ _You’d think you’d have_ _learned_ _that by now.” Geralt growled between his teeth, turning again from the bard. “I’m going to train._ _Try_ _keeping yourself out of trouble for a few hours.”_

Jaskier watched Geralt walk out the room, numb from the top of his head down to the tips his toes. It’d been a while since the Witcher had spoken to him with such  _anger_ . He was right back where he’d been months ago, on the top of that blasted mountain, feeling his world crumble. 

He’d done it again, he’d upset Geralt. He’d stuck his nose into things that didn’t concern him. He’d just- He wanted what was  _best_ for Ciri.  He simply couldn’t imagine dragging her along with them when they went in search of monsters to kill would be  _good_ for her. 

She’d always been so excited to talk about  her lessons with Yennefer whenever she’d visited him, gushing about all the things she’d learned about that day. It wasn’t that she didn’t  _enjoy_ training with Geralt and the other Witchers, the bard just got the feeling that magic held more interest for the princess. She made more progress in that field, while sparring even with practice swords remained a challenge. 

Had giving Geralt his opinion really been  _that_ wrong? 

Geralt had turned back into the man the day he’d broken Jaskiers heart, snarling and  _angry_ and- Jaskier swallowed heavily around the lump quickly forming in his throat, tears threatening to spill across his cheeks again. When was the last time he  _hadn’t_ cried almost every day? When he’d been  _happy_ ?

It felt like a _lifetime_ ago.

He’d known this would happen. Had tried to prepare for it, even.

Of course Geralt would _eventually_ get tired of him again. He’d known this from the beginning. Had been waiting for it, in fact. Burning every soft word, every caress into his memory so he’d never forget how it felt to be with Geralt. So he could look back on them and smile, thinking to himself how lucky he’d been to be a part of it. Thought, that with those moments stored away in his heart and mind, he’d be happy for the rest of his days.

So  _why_ did it  still hurt so  _fucking much_ ?

Sniveling, he collapsed onto the bed, stubbornly wiping the tears that refused to stop coming of f his cheeks, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. Wishing he wasn’t this  _pathetic_ . Wouldn’t spend the next few hours sobbing into his hands like a child, when he’d known better than to trust this  thing between them.

I t was time to face reality. Whatever Geralt thought he felt for the bard, anger would always win out, eventually.  Even if the wolf  _did_ love him. They clearly weren’t  _meant_ to be.  He annoyed the Witcher too much,  _needed_ too much. Jaskier simply couldn’t take any more heartbreak, on his own,  _or_ his Witchers behalf. 

He needed to leave, to get out of this room. Vesemir had mentioned a spare guest room, one not currently being used by Ciri or Yennefer. He’d sleep in there from now on.

He just- had to figure out a way to  _get_ there, and where exactly it was located. 

“You don’t deserve it, you know.” Jaskiers head snapped up, and suddenly he was faced with Eskel. The Witcher was leaning against the door frame, arms crosses over his chest, gold eyes examining him carefully. He hadn’t even heard the door open.“The way he talks to you, sometimes.”

“Uh. Thank you, Eskel.” Stubbornly wiping the last tears away, he glanced at the man. Eskel hadn’t taken much of an interest in him, and now he was here to, what, comfort him? It caught the bard completely off guard.

“Hmm.” It seemed all Witchers communicated via grunts and hums, and just as with Geralt when they’d first met, the bard had no idea how to interpret the sound. When no further reply followed, Jaskier glanced to the side, then back to Eskel. Perhaps, if he asked nicely, the wolf would help him.

“Listen, I uh. Vesemir mentioned a room that wasn’t being used and I-” He broke of, cleared his throat. Just thinking about leaving this room, this _bed_ enough to make him tear up again. He absolutely _refused_ to cry in front of Eskel. He could keep it together. He just needed to breathe. 

“You want me to take you there.” The Witcher guessed, before the bard could compose himself enough to finish his request.

“Ah, yes. I thought- Geralt is probably sick of having me here every hour of the day and-” He broke off once more when the larger man came towards him, scooping him up without a word. It startled the minstrel, it had been a while anyone but Yen, Ciri and Geralt had touched him. But Eskel was warm, and his chest even broader then Geralts, and if he just closed his eyes.. well, he could _pretend_ this was his Witcher; carrying him down the stairs to join everyone else for dinner. 

“Where are you taking him?” Ciri was suddenly walking beside them, curiously glancing at Jaskier. 

“Oh, Eskel is just-”

“Taking him to the spare room, cub. Did you run out on Vesemir again?” Eskel interrupted.

“ _No_.” Ciri pouted, huffing. “He sent me to check if Geralt was still with Jaskier.”

“Geralts outside, lion cub. Tell Vesemir to leave him be.”

“What are you going to do in the spare room?” Ciri inquired further, giving no sign that she was going to actually do as told.

“I’m going to be sleeping there from now on, Ciri. I think Geralt is going a bit- ah, he might have some cabin fever. I want to give him some space.” Gods, he hated lying to the girl but what else was he supposed to say? That he was doing what was best for Geralt, and essentially leaving him? That he wasn’t what the Witcher wanted, and never would be?

No, the sweet girl didn’t need to know any of this. It was better this way.

“You fought again, didn’t you?” Ciri asked, her voice small, lowering her gaze to the floor. 

“Get the door, cub.” Eskel grunted, and Jaskier hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived at their destination. The door swung open, and he was placed onto the bed, not quite as large as Geralts, but more than enough for the bard alone. 

“Thank you Eskel.” He sighed, turning to look at Ciri. “Its- Its a bit more complicated then that, sweetheart.”

“Complicated how?” She asked, sitting down beside him. He really didn’t want to have this conversation right now, when the pain was still so fresh, the wound open and raw. A quick glance at Eskel told him that he was alone in this, the Witcher simply shrugging as he leaned with against the wall. He’d half expected Eskel to leave, yet the man showed no sign of departing.

“Sometimes, when- when we love someone.” The bard began, trying his damnedest not to get choked up again. “Its better to-. At times, its better to take a break from each other, rather than keep fighting. All that does make you more angry at each other.” 

“That makes sense, I suppose.” The blond girl nodded her head, kicking her feet. “How long do you think you’ll be taking a break from each other?”

“I don’t know, darling. It- It could be some time.” Ciri sighed, leaning her head against the bards shoulder. 

  
“Its just. I like when I can sleep next to you  both . You know, when I ha ve bad dreams.” 

“You can still sleep with one of us, sweet child.” He said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, gently squeezing her against his side. “But I think you best get back to Vesemir now, before he sends out a rescue party.” 

_Please leave, sweetheart. I don’t want you to see me like this._

The princess hesitated, glancing at Jaskier and Eskel in turn, before slowly getting to her feet.

“I hope you can make up with him soon. I know you’re sad when he’s away.”

With that, she left.

The door fell shut and relief coursed through the bard. He’d made it. He couldn’t be good for Geralt, but at least he’d done _this_ right.

“She’ll catch on to your lie sooner or later, bard.”

He’d almost forgotten Eskel was still in the room.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jaskier replied quietly, deeming denial the best course of action. Geralt and Eskel were close, came from the same group of boys that Geralt had been in when they came to Kaer Morhen. They bond was special, there was no denying it. Going through the horrors it took to become a Witcher together had seen to that.

“You may be able to lie to her, little lark; but not to me. I can smell the anxiety on you. Your sorrow.” Eskel moved forward, moving to take Cirillas place. “You don’t mean to go back to him.”

God damned Witchers and their heightened senses.

“Its better this way.” The bard said, bowing his head to stare at the floor. “Being with me- its too difficult. I need too much attention, I’m too- I can’t stand when he talks to me like that; not anymore. I’d just be heartbroken, again and again; Geralt would be miserable each time. What good would that do?” 

“Hmm.” Eskel hummed, considering, taking his time to find the right words before he spoke, just as Geralt always did. “Geralt is like a brother to me. You already know this. We grew up together, here, in this castle. Went through the trials together. That kind of trauma, you don’t go through it with someone without it binding you together, in a way.”

“I can only imagine how hard it must have been for you.” Jaskier replied, keeping his sight trained onto the floor. “Geralt hasn’t told me much but- the things he _did_ tell me were awful.”

“They were. More of us died than survived.” Eskel sighed. “Geralt has always been good at bottling everything up, even when he was a boy. He’d spend so much time looking after others, trying to support them, protect them- he forgets about himself. Everything he feels, it keeps piling up and eventually, it has to come out. Unfortunately, it usually comes out with anger.”

N ot knowing what reply Eskel was expecting, the bard simply nodded his head. He’d seen Geralt deny his own feelings for months on end, until eventually, he’d take his ire out on the bard. Jaskier had, stupidly, never made the connection. Outbursts from his Witcher feeling random, and unpredictable.

“I’m not saying this to defend him.” Eskel eventually continued. “Or to try and make up for the things he said. I’m just hoping that understanding this, understanding _why_ he gets so angry would help _you_.”

“That’s- incredibly kind of you, Eskel. Thank you.” He’d meant what he said, yet somehow, the sentiment fell flat. He was once again exhausted, wanting nothing else but to curl up in bed and sleep.

“He loves you, bard. I know its hard to believe, especially after he treated you so unkindly. But its _true_. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone.” Eskel stood, no doubt sensing the bards exhaustion. “You should rest now. I’ll come up in a few hours to bring you food.” 

“Thank you, Eskel. For everything.” Truly touched by the Witchers kindness, he managed a small smile as he looked up at the man. “Some day, I’ll write a song just for you.”

“You do that.. I’ll want to hear it when its done.”

* * *

Eskel made his way down the stairs and back into the large hall where they took their meals together. Wondering if he’d done the right thing by helping the bard out of his brothers room without consulting him.

As much as he loved Geralt, he hated seeing him so  _consumed_ by anger, he blindly lashed out at anything,  _anyone_ close by. The white wolf was good at heart, that he knew for a fact. Yet his temper left much to desire. 

As if summoned, Geralt came hurrying along the hall, teeth bared and clearly agitated. Ah, so he’d discovered the empty bedroom.

“Where?” He growled out, more aggressive than he’d ever been with Eskel.

“He wants to be alone, Geralt.”

“ _No._ I need to talk to him.” The man insisted, somewhat frantically. “I- I need to apologize.” 

“Brother, _listen_ to me. Not now. Give him time to recover.” Eskel urged, grabbing Geralt by the shoulders, holding tight. “Let him rest.”

Geralt, of course, did no such thing. He shoved the Witchers hands off his shoulders, nostrils flaring as he no doubt sought out the bards scent, meaning to follow it. Not that there were many possibilities to begin with; but it seemed Geralt had no time to waste.

Pushing past Eskel, he headed for the door that would lead him along the hall, and up the stairs, to the bards new room. He was just about to open it when, much to both their surprise, a hand grabbed Geralts wrist.

Vesemir.

“You heard him, pup. Let the bard sleep.” The older man gruffed, a clear command he expected to be obeyed. “You can apologize to him when he’s awake. Think you’ve riled him up enough for now.”

Bewildered, Geralt stared at the man that was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. Then, he glanced at Eskel, who had nothing to add to the conversation. He hoped Geralt wouldn’t challenge Vesemirs decision. If he did, he had no doubt blood would be spilled.

“Don’t look at him, boy, look at me.” Vesemir grunted, continuing only when he had the white wolfs attention. “We know you care for the bard, but if you can’t reign in that temper of yours, you’ll lose him. For good. The world is a hard enough place to find someone as committed as your songbird. Don’t let your anger get in the way of that.” 

Geralt, sufficiently chastised, pulled his hand back from the door. Vesemir nodded, and released his grasp.

“Give the man time to sleep. You can wake him for dinner.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo here we go. Next chapter! With More Eskel! More Geralt! And a little Jaskier! 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all your support <3 I really appreciate it!

Geralt spent a good two hours hacking away at anything he could find (and Vesemir wouldn’t bitch about); at first, the anger remained with him. The more time passed, however, the more it drained from his body.

He shouldn’t have spoken to his bard like that. _Never_ should have let his anger get the better of him. But gods, he’d been so- so _enraged_ by the idea of giving Ciri over to anyone else except _maybe_ Vesemir. 

Now, with his mind much clearer, he reconsidered his little larks words, if rather grudgingly. Jaskier had been spending a lot of time with Ciri, either in the evenings when they ate dinner together, or the early mornings when Vesemir was busy training with the other Witchers, giving Ciri time off. And  _perhaps_ Yen had a point when she said it would be good for the little cub to learn as much as she could to defend herself. 

Still, leaving her completely to Yennefer felt  _wrong_ . 

Perhaps they could figure out a way to keep in contact, meet up every once in a while, so he could keep an eye on her.

First things first, he had to apologize to Jaskier. Let him know he hadn’t meant the horrible things he’d said, once again.

_Why_ did he do this? Why did he lash out like a cornered, vicious animal whenever he got angry? 

His songbird was the last person that deserved that kind of treatment, after everything he’d been through. He’d make it up to him tonight, with a hot bath and more chamomile oil to wash his hair. 

Cleaning up the mess he’d left took longer than he’d wanted, but he didn’t want to listen to Vesemir bitch for an hour when he had much more important things to do. So, once the remains of his destruction had been cleared away, Geralt quickly headed for his bedroom.

He found it empty. Geralt frowned.

Where could his lark have gone? He wouldn’t have made it down the stairs on his own, and they had been empty as he’d walked upstairs. He moved to the bed, placing his palm against the mattress. Cold. His bard hadn’t laid here in a while.

Now worried, Geralt inhaled deeply, willing the scents he caught to give him any indication as to where his bard was. Jaskiers scent was easy to catch, as well as Yens. They each carried  a very distinct smell, one Geralt could have picked up ten miles against the wind. 

Jaskiers scent, predictably, had become tainted with what Geralt now knew to be sorrow, making the Witcher grimace. He’d done it  _again_ . Just like on the mountain, he’d used Jaskier as a target for his unstoppable anger, and hurt him once more. He’d make up for it. He  _would_ . He just had to find Jaskier first. Inhaling again, he forced himself to focus on any unknowns. There it was, another, more subtle scent hanging in the air.

_Eskel_ .

Why had Eskel been here? It hadn’t been time for dinner yet, and there was no bowl anywhere in the room that would suggest food had been brought up. The water stood untouched as he had left it, no new carafe beside it, so that couldn’t have been it, either.

There was only one possibility left. Eskel had carried his little lark out of his room, without even  _telling_ Geralt first. But  _why?_

Feeling a sense of dread rising in his chest, Geralt hurried down the steps, into the main hall. Had he not seen Jaskier sitting at the fire? It seemed unlikely, but perhaps- he  _had_ been quite a rush-

Instead of Jaskier, Geralt ran straight into Eskel himself.

“Where?” He growled, once he was facing what was effectively his brother. Eskel gave him a soft look, sighing quietly before he replied.

“He want’s to be alone, Geralt.”

“ _No_. I need to talk to him.” Eskel didn’t get it, if he didn’t see Jaskier, if he didn’t reach him soon- His poor bard could break down again, or try to get up and break his neck, he _needed-_ “I- I need to apologize.”

“Brother, _listen to me._ ” Large hands came to rest on Geralts shoulder in an obvious effort to calm, and somewhat restrain, the white wolf. “Not now. Give him time to recover. Let him rest.”

Geralt was having none of it. Jaskier  _needed_ him, and he  _needed_ Jaskier; Eskel wasn’t going to convince him not to go to his little lark. Another deep inhale and the trace of his bards scent became clear to him. All he had to do was follow. 

He’d barely laid his hand on the door handle that separated him from Jaskier when, rather suddenly, a hand took hold of his wrist.

“You heard him, pup. Let the bard sleep.”

Geralt had never disobeyed Vesemir in his life, not once. Had trusted him with everything and everyone dear to him. Would’ve glady given his life for Vesemir. Yet now, he was considering; to break the order meant to get to Jaskier.

“You can apologize to him when he’s awake. Think you’ve riled him up enough for now.”

It hurt, hearing that, and Geralt flinched. They had heard him, caught his disgraceful outburst. The things he’d said to Jaskier. But- if they heard, then they  _knew_ he had to make it right, so why were they  _stopping_ him? Somewhat perplexed by the sudden turn of events, Geralt glanced at Eskel. 

““Don’t look at him, boy, look at me.“ Reluctantly, Geralt turned to face Vesemir once more. “We know you care for the bard, but if you can’t reign in that temper of yours, you’ll lose him. For good. The world is a hard enough place to find someone as committed as your songbird. Don’t let your anger get in the way of that.” 

Slowly, Geralt released his hold on the handle, and took a step back.

“Give the man time to sleep. You can wake him for dinner.”

Seemingly satisfied that Geralt would not disobey, Vesemir nodded, turned away, and headed for the yard. “Find Lambert, and then join me in the yard. Some of the walls need patching.”

* * *

Repairing the walls had taken hours, just as Geralt had suspected. Vesemir had left them to finish as he returned to the castle to prepare their dinner. Lambert had joined him, the Witchers taking turns to assist Vesemir with each meal.

Geralt took this as a small blessing, as it left him alone with Eskel, able to finally ask the questions that’d been burning on his tongue since that afternoon.

“Why did you take him away?” He asked, quiet enough so only his fellow Witcher could hear. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“He’s his own person, Geralt. He wanted to leave, so I helped him.”

Geralt frowned.

“He asked you to take him to the spare room?”

Eskel nodded, setting down the tools in his hand. He was clearly settling in for a longer conversation, and that alone made the white wolfs stomach clench. From his two brothers, and himself, the least talkative had always been Eskel. Where Geralt could be coaxed into words with patience and persistence. Eskel, however, seemed immune to any and all of it. He spoke  _only_ when he  _wanted_ to. 

“He did.” Eskel agreed, moving to sit himself down on the ground, back leaned against the wall. “Went up to check on him, couple hours after you argued. Asked me to take him, so I took him.”

“..Why did he want to go to the spare room, Eskel?”

“You want the truth, or the lie he told your little lion cub?” Geralts brows furrowed, slowly lowering himself to the ground as well, legs crossed, his hands placed on his knees. Jaskier had never lied to Ciri before, he was sure of it. So why now?

“Both. Tell- Tell me both.”

“He told the girl that sometimes, people that love each other need a break after they fight. That staying together when they’re angry, only makes things worse.” Eskel paused, yellow eyes catching Geralts. He didn’t like what he saw in them. It stoked the flames of fear in his chest even higher. “That it’d maybe take some time, but you’d make up.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Didn’t want to tell me anything. Tried lying to me, but his scent..” The man trailed off, shaking his head. “He doesn’t plan to be with you again, brother. Says its too hard for you, dealing with him. Too hard on him to keep getting his heart broken when you lash out, that he’s not strong enough to take it anymore. And you’d be miserable after each time it happened. He doesn’t want you to be miserable.”

Geralts mind went blank. For a second, a minute, an  _hour_ , he couldn’t tell. 

His stomach clenched, his chest grew tight, and his heart sped up, spreading anguish along his body with every beat.

Jaskier was  _leaving_ him.  For good.

People said Witchers couldn’t feel things like fear, and heartbreak. Couldn’t cry, or love or anything of the likes.

Right now, Geralt wished they were right.

H e wished he couldn’t feel the emotions those words ignited, emotions he couldn’t even  _begin_ to name along with those he’d been  _running_ from his whole life.

He felt alone, abandoned. He felt anger; anger at himself for being such an incredible moron, ruining the best thing that had ever happened to him because he couldn’t  _stop himself_ from turning on the ones he loved. This was all his fault. He’d done this to himself.

“I-” He croaked, shuddering as another wave of _fear/pain/alone_ washed over him. “I need to try. I can’t- not like this. I _cant_ let him go, I _cant_ lose him.” 

“..Geralt.” Eskel sighed, pointedly averting his gaze to the floor. “Have you ever thought that maybe, you two truly aren’t good for one another?” 

“ _No_!” The mere suggestion was ridiculous. Yes, they had their problems, their time together hadn’t always been _easy_ , but giving up on this- _relationship_ , was unthinkable. A life without Jaskier was no life at all. 

“Alright.” Eskel, ever patient, accepted the answer he received. “But you agree that it can’t go on like this. You can’t keep crushing him to the ground, and then _try_ to rebuild. Eventually, the foundation will crumble to nothing.” 

“I do.” That, he could admit. They couldn’t continue like this. _He_ couldn’t continue like this. Jaskier deserved better. He’d _be_ better.

“Good.” Eskel stood, offering Geralt his hand, pulling him onto his feet. “You’re my brother, Geralt. I will always be on your side. But you hurt that bard again, and we’ll have a different kind of conversation.”

I t was a threat, maybe the first Eskel had ever made against him. 

Geralt didn’t mind.

If  _that_ conversation ever happened, he’d have earned it.

* * *

“Bring the bard his food.” Vesemir grunted, pushing a plate of food into Geralts hands. “Eskel, the water. Bring it up.”

Geralt wanted to protest. He could bring both things upstairs, there was no reason for Eskel to come along. One look at the oldest wolf silenced him. Eskel would be coming along.

Jaskier was fast asleep as the Witchers entered, breath even and slow, blanket pulled up to his ears. Geralts heart skipped a beat at the sight. His little lark in any bed but his own put him on edge. He  _belonged_ with Geralt.

“Jaskier?” He moved towards the bard, gently brushing his thumb along the bards cheek. “Little lark. Wake up now.”

Eyelids fluttered open, ever so slowly, hazy eyes slowly focusing.

“Geralt?”

“Yes, songbird. Its time for dinner.” Geralt kept his movement slow and even, not wanting to startle the still half-asleep bard. As Jaskier sat up, he moved back, meaning to collect the food and water he’d placed on the small desk, only to have Eskel handing them to him.

“Thank you.” Jaskier mumbled, accepting the offerings with his head lowered. Like he couldn’t even _look_ at Geralt. It stung, but he deserved it. 

They needed to talk, but first, Jaskier had to eat. He had no doubt that what came next would be unpleasant, and rob his bard of his appetite. His little lark needed the nutrients.

“Jaskier.” It was Eskels voice that called out to the bard, startling them both. Jaskier raised his head, corn-blue eyes coming to rest on the Witchers face. “Do you want to eat alone?”

Geralts shoulders tightened. Eskel was trying to be considerate, give Jaskier room, and that was  _good_ , and yet.. It didn’t  _sit_ right with Geralt.  Eskel had never been this familiar with- well,  _anyone_ . Not even Lambert and Geralt. So why, exactly, was he being like this with Jaskier?

“No, I- Thank you Eskel.” Jaskier gave a tiny smile. “I’d. I’d like to talk to Geralt, please.”

Geralt felt a grim sort of satisfaction, only to feel guilty a second later. His brother was only trying to  _help_ . He wasn’t trying to steal what was Geralts. He wasn’t that kind of man.

Eskel nodded, gave Geralt a quick glance, and left the room.

“Geralt-” 

“Eat first, Jaskier. Please. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, not after- what happened.” Just thinking about it made Geralts skin crawl. “I know we need to talk. I promise you, I’ll listen. But if you think you could- manage food before. I would appreciate that.”

J askier sighed, then glanced at the food. A small nod the only reply he gave as he started eating. 

So far, so good. Maybe he hadn’t done too much damage. Maybe he could still save them.

Geralt sat silently, and let the bard eat.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH. This one hurt me to write, on so many levels, but it had to be done. 
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful comments, and all the support you've been giving me with this series. <3 Without you, I doubt I'd have gotten this far. Get yourselves a cookie guys, cause you deserve it!

For half an hour, Jaskier listlessly picked at his food. He hadn’t been very hungry to be begin with, and the conversation practically looming above him hadn’t helped the matter. He’d had maybe half of the meal before he simply couldn’t take another bite.

Geralt, so perceptive when he wanted to be, took the plate and placed it onto the ground beside the bed.

So they were doing this. He breathed in, deep and slow, closing his eyes as he focused his thoughts. Cement the goals he wanted to achieved into his mind.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.” Geralt broke the silence first, reaching out to take Jaskiers hands into his own, much larger ones. Just holding them, with no pressure, no insistence. _Sweet_.

“I know, Geralt.”

Of course he knew.

“You left anyway.” The Witcher sighed, brows furrowed. “And I understand, little lark, _I do._ I wouldn’t want to be around me either when-” Geralt swallowed. “I don’t know why I get this way. Why I turn into this- this beast. I get so _angry,_ and the next thing I know, I’ve hurt you. _Again_. But please, my songbird, you have to believe me when I say that I don’t _mean_ the things I say.”

“Geralt..” Gods above, give him strength. Let him make it through this. Make him come out  _ stronger  _ than before. “This isn’t- working.” He finished, rather lamely. The Witchers hands twitched against his.

“We can change that. I can- I  _ will  _ find a way to control my rage. Please, little lark. Let me  _ try _ . Let me  _ try _ to  _ fix _ this.”

“I can’t take another heartbreak, Geralt.” Jaskier whispered, once again hanging his head. “I  _ can’t _ . Even if you don’t mean them, even if you come back and apologize, and handle me with the greatest of care known to mankind. I’ll always be  _ waiting  _ for the other shoe to drop, for you to get angry again and-” 

He stopped himself, clenching his eyes tight shut, willing away the tears welling up.

“Don’t, little lark, my sweet bard.” Geralt pleaded, pressing his nose against the bards temple, voice unsteady like never before. “Don’t do this. I love you. I love you so much it  _ hurts _ ,  more than  _ anything _ else in this wretched, hateful world.”

“I know.” And once again he was crying, trembling, wanting nothing else but to forgive his Witcher, his wolf, and let him back into his bed, his  _ heart _ . 

He couldn’t.

It wouldn’t be  _ right _ . 

Even if Geralt got a handle on his anger, he’d only slow the Witcher down. Ciri was progressing quickly, they wouldn’t be chained to Kaer Morhen for much longer. Yet he could barely take a few steps without collapsing, couldn’t use his hands. He wouldn’t just be a burden, he’d be endangering the one thing he valued more than anything. Sooner or later, they’d get into a situation where Geralt wouldn’t be able to protect a crippled bard. Jaskier would die, and Geralt would blame himself. Or even  _ worse,  _ Geralt would die, and he would lay down and die beside him; a life wasted because he couldn’t protect his Witcher, the way he’d been protected for years.

“I  _ know,  _ and I love you too!” He sobbed, his heart breaking apart at the seams. “But I  _ can’t. _ I’m so sorry Geralt, I’m sorry I’m too weak to be what you need. I’d give anything to be better, to be  _ stronger _ , but I’m  _ not. _ And we-  _ I  _ won’t survive something like this. It’d break me beyond repair, and I’m already- already so much  _ less _ than I used to be.” 

Geralt inhaled sharply, as if he’d been pierced by a blade, followed quickly by a wounded growl. It was killing the bard, letting Geralt think  _ he  _ was the reason they were splitting up, weighed his chest down as if someone had placed an  anvil on his chest. 

_ Its better this way, its better, be strong, be strong! Just a little longer. _

Geralt slipped away from him, prompting Jaskier to open his eyes, to follow Geralts every movement. Much to his surprise, Geralt slid from the bed and onto his knees. It shocked the bard into stillness. 

“I’m begging you.” Geralt murmured, still clutching Jaskiers in his own. “I’m  _ begging  _ you, Jaskier, my songbird, my  _ everything _ . Please, do not do this. Do not  _ leave  _ me. I can’t be without you. Not now, not every.  _ Please _ .” 

He’d never seen Geralt beg, not once in the many, many years they’d spent together. Had never seen the man sink onto his knees for anyone, not even Yen. Always too pride, too stubborn, readily accepting death as long as he kept his dignity. 

Geralt of Rivia bowed to no one. Would rather die standing than life on his knees. 

It was far too much to take in, far too much to process. 

Another sob ripped itself from the minstrels chest, a wretched, broken thing that cut like glass in his throat. He was close to breaking, he could feel his resolve wavering, breaking down under Geralts attempts to win him back. 

“I’m sorry.” Almost choking on the words, Jaskier pulled his hands back. “We- We’ll still see each other, Geralt, but we  _ can’t _ go back to what we were.”

Geralt  _ howled _ out, agony and sorro w and heartbreak all wrapped up in a single sound. Was shaking now, almost as much as Jaskier, and gods, this was too much to ask, to watch his wolf fall apart like this, to see how much this  _ hurt  _ him. 

The door opened only seconds later, Vesemir and Eskel bursting into the room, quickly followed by Lambert. They took in the situations quickly, Jaskier sobbing and rocking back and forth as he held his hands to his chest. 

Geralt, slumped on the ground, hands hanging uselessly by his side; head, lowered. 

“Come, pup. On your feet.” Vesemir urged, grabbing Geralt under the shoulder and hoisting him upwards. “’nough for today, for both of you.” 

As he was lead away, Geralt stopped, slowly turning to face Jaskier.

“I’ll be better. And when I am, I’ll prove it to you. And maybe- maybe then I’ll be worthy of you, and your love. That, I swear to you.” 

Lambert shot the bard a glare. Like he was saying  _ How could you? How dare you? Do you know what you’ve done? _ , then left the room.

Eskel stayed behind. Sat himself by the bards side. 

“Jaskier.” The bard looked up, taking in Eskels scars from up close. Thick, craggy lines from his forehead to his chin, all on one side. Skin too damaged to heal what had to have been profound wounds. One day, he thought absently, he’d ask about them. Jostled out of his thoughts, he felt an arm wrap around him, not holding on, simply-  _ offering.  _

Jaskier sagged against the Witchers chest with another sob, wanting so badly something to hold on to.  Eskel was large, and warm, had always treated him kindly; even more so in the last day. Perhaps he was allowed to rest, just for a bit, against the man that could so resembled the one he  _ really _ wanted. 

It was over, for now. He could breathe freely. Geralt would lick his wounds, perhaps for days, avoiding Jaskier and the others as much as possible. He’d come back, of course. He’d vowed to be  _ worthy _ , after all.

Jaskier would remain strong. Would refuse the white wolf as many times as he had to, until he finally gave up and found someone else. Someone better suited to his needs. Strong and beautiful, and most importantly, long-lived. 

He’d forget all about the bard, would never know the truth about why they’d broken apart. 

Jaskier would never  _ let him  _ find out. 

He cried until he made himself sick, until his eyes burned and his lungs ached and his head felt to heavy to hold up himself. 

Throughout it all, Eskel sat quietly at his side; only ever moving to help the bard bend over and throw up; eventually to clean the mess he’d made. Jaskier had weakly argued, through his hiccups and sobs, that  _ please, he could do it _ . Only to be given a hum as Eskel continued. 

He came back from disposing of his stomach contents with a basin of warm water, and a few cloths. Moved the minstrel to sit against the head of the bed. 

“Stay still.” 

Jaskier couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. Too heavy to even lift a finger. At least the tears had stopped; none left to spill. The first touch of damp cloth against his cheek only rousing him enough to crack open an eye, to catch a glimpse  of Eskels face, before falling shut again. Once his face was clean enough to please the Witcher, he pulled back.

“ Going to lay you back down. Alright?” 

The bard nodded weakly. Sleep sounded wonderful right about now. Forget about the days events, and feel the way he did. Unless-

As he was lowered onto the mattress, and the covers drawn over him, he felt fear begin to hold him. 

What if he had another nightmare? If his mind took him back, like it had on that day in the yard? Geralt wouldn’t be here to help him, to soothe him; he’d made sure of that.

He’d be all alone. 

“ None of that now.” Eskel grunted, the mattress shifting beneath Jaskiers body. Eskel had seemingly come to sit beside him, back against the headrest, legs stretched out before him. “I’ll watch over you. Sleep, little lark.”

J askier let sleep take him; sparing not a single thought to why this man would help him so readily. Or the way his voice had  softened around the endearment as he slipped into darkness. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo once again a chapter I'm not entirely sure about. I hope you guys enjoy it anyway <3
> 
> Thank you all for your support, the amazing comments, and all the kudos <3 They mean the world to me!

The following weeks were not easy for Geralt. Not easy at all.

At first, he stayed away from everyone. Trying to pull himself back together without pulling anyone into the hole of misery he found himself in. Not being with Jaskier was one of the worst things he’d experienced in his whole life. The bard so close yet untouchable. Not his any longer. So he took his meals in the kitchen, and spent the rest of his time stubbornly locked away in his room. Hoping that with a few days time to himself, it would get easier.

It decidedly did _not_ get easier.

Once he’d rejoined the others in training and meals, he couldn’t ignore  the way Jaskiers scent lingered on Eskel. It seems his brother had taken it upon himself to tend to the bard in his stead. It made Geralt feel-  _things._ Things that ate at him slowly from within.

Before all this, he would have shoved them to the side and ignored them. Let them fester inside him until he couldn’t take it anymore, and eventually came oozing out of him like puss from a wound.

But things had changed. He’d promised Jaskier he’d be  _better_ , and he’d meant it. He’d start with breaking this bad habit.

So, once he’d spent the day training with Ciri and the others, had eaten and washed the sweat off his skin, he laid himself down on his bed.   


Asking himself, for the first time in his life, what he was feeling. Spent hours searching his own mind and heart. It was harder than it probably should have been; to let go of his pride and admit to himself that it was perfectly fine to feel, and  _talk_ about those feelings. The sun was just starting to rise when the Witcher thought he’d named everything he felt.

Sadness, that one was obvious. He loved Jaskier, and he’d lost him. He didn’t blame the bard, quite the opposite. If anything, after consideration, he was surprised the bard hadn’t left him sooner. 

Jealous was next. As much as he hated it, he was without a doubt jealous of the other Witcher. He got to be with Jaskier, helped him with training his hands and legs (Geralt had made sure of that). He helped the bard with his baths, and brought the bard his food when he asked to eat alone. Sat beside him as he fell asleep whenever Jaskier requested it. 

It was Eskel that witnessed Jaskiers first unassisted trek down to the main hall, or after months of struggling, managed to stretch out his fingers. Geralt hadn’t learned of this until he’d told everyone at dinner. 

It caused something akin to anger to well up in him, the next emotion he had to deal with. It felt-  _wrong_ . But then, everything about  _not_ being with his songbird felt wrong. He couldn’t taper down the first sparks of rage, and so, before he made things even worse, he’d politely excused himself and left for bed. 

It didn’t help that he started suspecting that perhaps, Eskels affections for the bard weren’t exactly  _platonic_ . 

Geralt had never considered himself as an especially possessive partner, but whenever Eskel was with Jaskier, the way he  _looked_ at him- He’d never wanted to hurt Eskel before, but now, his fingers itched to curl into fists and protect what was  _his._

Except, Jaskier  _wasn’t_ his. Not right now. Maybe never again.

He had no right to intervene. 

That alone was enough to make the white wolf feel ill to his stomach. 

Yet who was he to fault Eskel for falling under the bards spell? It had happened to Geralt too, after all. 

He avoided his brother now, as shameful as it was, preferring Lamberts and Vesemirs company. He was doing the best he could to become what the bard needed, but catching his scent mixed with his brothers, laced with the slightest hint of desire from Eskel- it was too much to ask, too soon. 

He’d made progress in other ways; had sincerely apologized to Yen when he finally managed to catch her alone. Of course, she hadn’t simply accepted it, but spent a good bit berating him. Geralt kept his mouth shut throughout it all; he’d deserved it.

She did soften, rather quickly in fact, when Geralt had brought up that he was willing to let Ciri travel with her, if certain conditions were met. He wanted to meet up with them every now and again, and if possible, be informed of their next destinations. It would be easier to track them down that way, should there ever be need for it. 

Yennefer, to her credit, had accepted his conditions without protest. He was grateful for that.

* * *

Geralt was sitting alone  at the fire one night, eyes trained on the flickering flames in the hearth, contemplating what would come next. Ciri had been improving at as impressive rate, and soon, she’d have no need of the Witchers training any longer. 

Not to mention that spring would be upon them soon. They’d all leave Kaer Morhen, save for Vesemir, who remained year rounds. Jaskier was doing better as well, able to walk normal distances without getting winded, and regaining most of the function in his hands. He still tired from playing his lute after a few songs, much sooner than he had before, but it was  _better_ . 

Geralt thanked the gods that the bard hadn’t been cursed to a life without music after all. It filled him with pride, and unspeakable relief. Jaskier had come  _so far_ .

He took a long sip from his cup, grunting at the spirits bitter taste. 

“Geralt?” 

Startled out of his thoughts, Geralt turned his head so quickly it made him dizzy. Jaskier hadn’t spoken to him directly since that very night, tolerating the Witchers presence but never seeking him out directly. Geralt had respected these new boundaries, as much as he’d hated them. He missed Jaskier fiercely,  _constantly_ ; staying away from him had been an incredibly difficult task.

_ Don’t ruin this.  _

“Jaskier.” He greeted quietly in return, watching as the bard lowered himself onto the bench Geralt had dragged to stand in front of the hearth. The fire crackled merrily, unaware of the tension filling the room. They were alone, everyone else had already made for their rooms. 

“What are you doing here alone? Its late.” Jaskier asked, his voice laced with concern. Silly songbird, even now he couldn’t help but worry about Geralt. 

“Thinking about the future.” Geralt replied honestly. “Spring will be here soon.”

“Hm.” Jaskier hummed, pulling his leg up against his chest, chin resting on his knee. A movement that had been impossible not that long ago. “What do you think you’ll do? When spring arrives, I mean.”

“See of Yen and Ciri. And then- I suppose I’ll go back on the path.” The Witcher huffed, taking another sip before offering the mug to Jaskier. The bard accepted it, took a sip of his own, before handing it back with his face scrunched up. 

“You Witcher are good at many things, but making spirit is not one of them.” 

Geralt snorted, lips curling into a small smile. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” He replied, taking another sip. 

They stared at the flames in silence, handing the mug back and forth between them until it was empty; only to be filled again by Geralt not a second later. 

“I was thinking.” Jaskier broke the silence, capturing the Witchers attention once more. “When the snow melted- I’d like to go to Oxenfurt. I’ve been offered a position there as a Professor a while back, I’m sure I could still take them up on it. I’d have lodgings and the coin wouldn’t be bad, either.”

It made sense, Geralt thought. He hadn’t expected Jaskier to follow him on the Path, not after everything. He’d half expected Jaskier to set off with Eskel-

No. Jaskier wouldn’t do that. Knew that it would hurt Geralt, make him feel replaced. 

“If that’s what you want.” Geralt said, carefully weighing his words. “But- Jaskier if- hmm.”

It was hard to say what he wanted to, in that moment. If he went through with it, perhaps he’d lose Jaskier for good.  It was selfish, wanting to keep the bard to himself; he knew this. Yet he couldn’t quite stomp down the insistent voice urging him to keep his mouth shut. 

“Take your time, Geralt.” Jaskier soothed, so incredibly caring and utterly _selfless_ it was hard to take. He could do this. He could. He wanted Jaskier to be _happy_ ; more than anything else. Even if it meant losing him.

“If you want to walk the Path with Eskel, I’d understand.” 

Geralt turned his head to face the bard, hoping to convey his honesty with a small smile.

Jaskiers expression, however, was that of confusion.

“Why would I want to go with Eskel?” 

“He. Hmm.” Geralt hadn’t expected the question, making his next words harder to find. “I thought, perhaps he’d-” No, that wasn’t it, that wouldn’t work. “He has feelings for you.”

“..I know.” Jaskier sighed, running elegant fingers through his hair. “I like Eskel, Geralt, but he’s not- well. He’s not _you_.” 

A  knot deep inside Geralts chest loosened. He could breathe a little easier. Selfish, again; Eskel deserved someone to love, and be loved by in return. He couldn’t help it. Not this.

“I was jealous.” The words had crossed his lips before Geralt could stop them. Surprised by his own confession, he glanced at the bard to check his reaction. Hoped he hadn’t pushed too far. 

“Oh Geralt.” Jaskier sighed, turning his body to face the Witcher, straddling the bench, reaching out to place a hand against Geralts cheek. Helpless to resist, Geralt moved into the touch, leaned against the bards hand like an overgrown cat; nostrils flaring as he inhaled as deeply as he could. Wanted to take it all in, every note that made up Jaskiers scent, the feeling of his skin against Geralt. 

“I’m sorry.” The Witcher breathed, resisting the urge to press his lips against the bards palm, letting his eyes fall shut. “I know its wrong. Eskel is a good man. So are you. I couldn’t fault either of you if you’d grown closer.” 

A nother pause, as Gerald held completely still. Scared that even the smallest of shifts would ruin the moment, would lose him the bards gentle touch. 

_ Not yet. Please don’t leave me yet.  _

“You would’ve given us your blessing.” It was said with such wonder, Geralts eyes snapped open, only to be faced with the awe written all over the bards face. 

“Of course.” Geralt agreed, his voice too rough even to his own ears. Clearing his throat, he made another attempt. “Of course, Jaskier. I’d do anything to make you happy. Even if it meant I wasn’t.”

“Thats- Geralt, you-” Jaskier moved closer, pressing his forehead against the Witchers; expression so soft, smile so _tender_ , it made Geralts heart ache. “Thank you. Gods, Geralt, you truly are a rare one.”

“..I just want whats best for you.” Geralt replied, still uncomfortable with being praised, but trying his hardest to accept it. “If that’s Eskel, then so be it.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier pulled back, separating their faces, but leaving his palm against Geralts cheek. “I could never love another. My heart is _yours_ , and it _always will be_. That hasn’t changed.”

“But its still not enough.” Geralt sighed, now daring to place his hand over the bards, squeezing gently. “I know. I don’t fault you for wanting to be apart.”

“Darling..” Jaskier hesitated, teeth worrying his lower lip as his gaze flicked from Geralts face, to his hands, then back again. “..Let me go to Oxenfurt. Let me rebuild my strength. I can’t follow you, not yet, but perhaps-”

Hope blossomed in Geralts chest; hope he’d long given up on, despite his promises to the bard. Oh, he’d meant to keep them. He’d become better, and pray to be worthy of Jaskier, but deep down, he’d never thought he’d be given another chance. Didn’t  _deserve_ another chance. 

All he wanted now was to take hold of the bard, wrap his arms around him and never let go. Wanted to kiss and scent and adore him in every way known to him, only to do it again and again, until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

It was too soon. The thing between them still too fragile. Now was not the time.

“With your permission, I’d come and visit.” He rasped, allowing himself the briefest nuzzle against the bards hand, indulging his desires for just a fraction of a second. “As a friend. Tell you tales about the monsters I faced. Make sure you’re safe, and happy. If you’ll allow it.” 

He didn’t dare to speak of the bards possible return to his side; a matter for a different day, a different time and place. 

“That sounds lovely, Geralt.” 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh only one more chapter after this! I'm both excited and sad the series will be ending so soon. But all ends bring new beginnings, and who knows! Maybe I'll come up with a new story for these two! (Maybe !creatureJaskier? A/B/O Dynamics? So many options!)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. <3 Thank you for all the amazing support and patience you've guys shown me <3 You are all wonderful, amazing people!

Spring had finally arrived.

Jaskier glanced at his meager belongings, his lute and a small bundle of clothes he’d received in his time at Kaer Morhen. They’d become rather worn by now, often being worn; he’d have to purchase new ones in Oxenfurt.

He had expected feeling sad at departing the old castle that he’d become so used to; he had simply _underestimated_ how sad he’d be. The stone walls held such familiarity to him now, he found the idea of leaving it behind, perhaps forever, rather troubling.

One more night, he’d get to stay in what had essentially become his haven, full of people he cared for; thought to varying degrees, admittedly.

He jerked as someone knocked on his door, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Come in!” He called, quickly standing, smoothing his hands down his chest to flatten it. It was, of course, of little use. The fabric was simply too worn. 

He’d been expecting Eskel, or Ciri. Maybe even Vesemir. 

Instead, he was greeted by Yennefer. 

“Feeling sad already?” She remarked evenly. Ah right.  _ Sorceress _ . She had heightened senses, just like Geralt. 

“Ah, I suppose I am.” He admitted,  offering her the wooden chair Eskel had brought into the room a few weeks ago. “I’ve gotten attached.”

“Hm.” Yennefer hummed, gracefully settling onto the offered seat. How did she  _ do _ it? Every movement was graceful and fluid, like that of a feline. One of the many things he envied about her. Not that he’d ever  _ admit _ it. “I wanted to talk to you about something before you left.”

“Of course.” He wasn’t really interested in conversing with Yennefer much, truth be told, but they’d come a far way from him actually  _ despising _ her. “What can I do for you, oh fearsome sorceress?”

“Geralt told me it was you that convinced him to let me take Ciri.” 

“Ah. Right to the point, then. Yes.” Jaskier fidgeted, finally sitting down on the bed. “I wouldn’t say I  _ convinced _ him, really. After your fight I- well, I gave him my opinion. Which just-  _ happened _ to be that Ciri should be given the chance to learn as much as possible.  I truly believe that’s whats best for her. ” 

“I see.” Yennefer nodded slowly, lilac eyes searching the bards face, though he did not know what for. “It was what swayed him in the end, nonetheless.  So I owe you my thanks.”

“You saved my life. You don’t owe me  _ anything _ , Yennefer. If anything, I owe you.” Jaskier frowned, confused by the entire interaction. She wasn’t the horrible person he’d thought her to be, but this? He’d never had expected  _ this _ . “Speaking of debts-”

“I want nothing from you, bard. You made sure Ciri was allowed to accompany me. We’re even.” Yennefer stood, as if that ended the conversation, effectively cutting off any of the bards protests. She made it to the door before she halted, pausing, and finally turning her head to glance at him over her shoulder. 

“I’m glad you didn’t take Geralt back. I never thought you would have the balls to send him packing. But it was the right decision. You deserve better, bard. Never forget that.”

She was gone before he could even form a response. 

* * *

Their last evening together, their mismatched little family all sat together, left a sour feeling in the bards stomach. Vesemir had prepared a small feast, and Lambert had made more of his spirit for this very night. Everyone around the table was merry, drinking, eating, and talking animatedly. Even Yennefer seemed in a good mood, bantering and laughing as night fell.

As much as Jaskier was enjoying the jovial atmosphere,  he simply couldn’t quite match it. Content, for once, to sit silently and drink in the sounds of a happy little crowd. Gods knew when they’d all be together again. Any of the Witchers could be struck down by a monster with each job they took. Yennefer and Ciri would have so many things to see, so many places to go. And Jaskier- he was human. By the time they all came together again, he might already be too old to make the trip up the mountain. If he was even still  _ alive _ . 

“ Jaskier?” Ciri had stood up and made her way over to him without him even realizing. Gods, he really did have to pull himself together. “Can you tell me a story before bed?”

“Of course, little swallow.” He smiled, getting onto his feet; bowing to her in a small flourish. “ Your wish is my command.” 

Giggling, Ciri curtsied before heading over to place a kiss on both Yens, and Geralts cheek, before turning back to Jaskier.

“Tonight was nice.” She said once they’d made it to her room. “Everyone seemed happy.” 

“Indeed. It was a good evening, well spent.” Jaskier smiled, pulling the blanket over the princess as she laid down. “Now, what kind of story would you like to hear? Another of Geralts adventures, perhaps?” 

“Actually.” Ciri looked up at hi, clearly hesitant. Seemingly having made her decision to continue on a moment later, she  quickly added. “Geralt said you were at my parents betrothal.”

“I- uh. Yes, I was.” Slightly uneasy, Jaskier sat down beside her. “ What about it?”

“He never really told me much about it.” She sighed, gazing up at the bard. “He always said you’d tell it better. Being a bard and everything.”

Of course.

“Hm. Well, this was a long time ago, but I will do my best to do the tale justice.” 

And so, he recounted to her the events of the evening; and if he left out some of the fighting and spilling of blood, well; there wasn’t anyone there to correct him.

* * *

The minstrel had just made it back into his room, exhausted and ready to fall into bed, when another knock sounded against his door. 

An eventful day, he thought, quickly pulling on the chemise he’d just discarded.

“Come in!” He called, allowing himself to settle on the bed, when polite company would have had him standing. But it was late, and Jaskier was tired, and whoever was eager enough to talk to him at this hour would have to deal.

The door opened to reveal Eskel, the large Witcher moving silently into the room before shutting the door.

“Eskel! What can I do for you?” He’d grown quite fond of the Witcher; Eskel had been ever caring, ever  _ patient _ , in a way no other had ever been. He respected him for it, as patience was something the bard himself lacked at times.

“Wanted to see you.” Eskel simply replied,  leaning with his back against the door in his usual fashion. “The witch is going to portal you to Oxenfurt?”

“Ah, yes. Yennefer’s been kind enough to help me once more. It’ll save me months on the road, and I won’t have to ask any of you to travel along with me. Makes it easier for everyone.” 

“Hm.” Eskels gaze flickered to the ground, then centered back onto the bards face. “You know I wouldn’t have minded traveling with you. Would’ve kept you safe, and fed. She’ll charge you for that little favor.”

“Mayhaps.” Jaskier replied carefully. Something- Something wasn’t quite  _ right _ . “Eskel-”

“I could come with you.” The Witcher interrupted hurriedly, as if he wanted to avoid the question already on the tip of Jaskiers tongue. “Said yourself you’re not all the way back. Might need help, from time to time. Someone to keep you company.” 

“Thats- Eskel, that’s a thoughtful offer, truly, but-”

“But.” Eskel grunted, turning his head sideways, like the stone wall had suddenly become very interesting indeed. “I’m not Geralt.”

“Its not that, sweet Witcher.” Jaskier sighed. “I would’ve denied Geralt just the same.”

“..You claim this isn’t about your feelings for him.” Eskel replied slowly, still stubbornly avoiding facing the bard. “But it’s part of it, isn’t it?”

“..Perhaps.” Jaskier agreed. “ It’s still only a part. I can’t keep you from the path, cooped up in a small apartment in a noisy, overfilled city. You wouldn’t be happy there, Eskel, we both know this.”

“Another part, but not the entire truth. Just speak the words, bard.” 

Jaskier wished he didn’t have to. That Eskel wouldn’t force him. That they could part on good terms, as friends, and hopefully meet again as such.

“..I know you have feelings for me, feelings I- I  _ cannot _ return.” He stood, crossing the distance the man had carefully put between them,  placing his hand on the Witchers arm . “Some small part of me wished I did. You’re a good man, Eskel; strong and brave and  _ caring _ . You’ve helped me so much. And you deserve better than someone that can’t love you in return.”

“ You love him that much?” 

“I do. More than I, or any other master of the spoken, and written, word could ever describe. My sun rises with him in the morning, and sets with him at night. He’s the moon and the stars that guide me through the night. He’s  _ everything to me _ .”

“He doesn’t  _ deserve _ to be.” Eskel huffed, tensing beneath the bards touch as he spoke. 

“Eskel, please look at me.” The Witcher turned his head once more, yellow eyes catching the bards; waiting for what else he had to say.

“One day, you’ll be someones sun, and moon. You’ll be  _ their  _ everything, I’m sure of it. When that time comes, you’ll understand that love- it isn’t always beautiful, or right, or even  _ deserved _ . For all it brightens, love casts long shadows. Geralt and I, we’re in the shadow now. But I don’t doubt, for even a  _ second _ , that we will see the light again.” 

“How can you be so sure of that? Of any of it?” Eskel questioned, placing his hand above Jaskiers. 

“Because I have faith in Destiny. And in  _ Geralt _ .” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter guys! Holy fuck. I never thought I'd get this far. But I did, thanks to all of you! Every comment, and kudos and bookmark motivating me to keep going!  
> I want to thank all of you wonderful people, for sticking around for this long, and all your support. 
> 
> Truth be told, I'm a bit sad this story has come to its end, but I feel like this is a good point to end it. Hopefully, you agree with me. And who knows! Perhaps I'll start writing another story soon! (I do have some ideas, we'll see how those go!)  
> Again, thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. <3

Geralt was nervous.

With every step he took towards his goal, the fluttering of his stomach grew more intense. His heart, beat faster. If he’d been human, he had no doubt, he’d be breaking out in a nervous sweat. The palms of his hand would be clammy, making it harder to hold on to Roach’s reigns.

This was his third visit to Oxenfurt, this year. After months on the road, he’d _finally_ get to see his little lark again.

It felt too long since he’d been in the company of his little lark.

Jaskier had thrived in Oxenfurt, becoming a respected, even _adored_ , Professor.

His popularity had served the Academy well, and after two years of giving lectures and playing his songs, they had moved him off campus, into a small house of his own. Affording the famed bard more privacy. After all, it was his name and famous techniques that had brought in more and more students, over time.

Geralt had never been more proud of the bard.

He’d kept his promise. He’d worked on himself, on how he communicated; found ways to halt his anger, channel it into something more productive. He’d visited Jaskier whenever he’d had the time, and the coin to finance his travels.

Yet each time he approached the city, he couldn’t help but feel anxious. They’d met, again and again, as friends. Leaving him longing for more; to hold and caress and _love_ his bard, as he always should have.

He’d respected Jaskiers boundaries without fail. Hugging, and holding his hands was acceptable. On nights when nightmares plagued either one of them, they’d share a bed, holding each other and basking in the comfort of the other. It was never anything but innocent. In the mornings, Jaskier would smile at him, blue eyes bright and beautiful; would place a kiss on his cheek and thank him for the night. Though Geralt always suspected he was being thanked for _more_.

Walking along the crowded streets was not something he enjoyed, made Roach nervous as well, so used to spending hours alone on dusty back roads. Knowing he’d be seeing his bard the only comfort in these trying moments, as he was assaulted by the noise and smell of the city, and its inhabitants.

Jaskier had thoughtfully arranged to have Roach stabled at the Academy ground whenever the Witcher came to visit, and Geralt always made sure his companion was well taken care of before he met the bard. This visit was no different. Perhaps he did linger a bit longer, petting Roach along the neck, gently rubbing her snout.

“I’ll make sure he comes to visit.” He told her quietly, pressing his forehead against the warmth of the mares neck. “He’ll spoil you no doubt, but you deserve it.”

Roach whinnied as if agreeing, gently nudging the Witchers side.

He wished he didn’t always get this nervous. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Not until he looked upon the bards face, and forgot everything else. His world narrowing down to the bard, and the bard alone.

“I’ll see you soon, girl. Be _nice_.” 

* * *

The house was nice, Geralt thought. Not overly large, or pompous. Just the right size for a single man. For as much as Jaskier was courted, he never had taken up with another. Geralt hadn’t asked, of course. It wasn’t his place. And if he’d been jealous over the years, after witnessing just how beloved his bard was, he’d told Jaskier. Calmly, honestly, and without a hint of blame. They were friends, and the bard was free to be with whomever he liked.

Yet each time he mentioned it, Jaskier had given him a look so soft, it was almost painful.

_Worry not, dear Witcher. My heart is still, and always will be, yours._

And whatever possessiveness, jealousy, or doubt he’d felt had melted away; like the last patch of stubbornly remaining snow under the heat of the spring sun. 

He’d barely knocked when the door flew open, revealing a beaming Jaskier. 

“Geralt!” He threw himself at the Witcher, arms wrapping around his neck, always so _affectionate_. The Witcher hid his smile against brown hair, wrapped his arms around the bards chest in return, squeezed tight. 

“Jaskier.” He rumbled, allowing the embrace, perhaps for longer than was proper. But gods, it had been _too long_. He’d seen the bard last at the end of spring. Now, the leafs were turning brown, abandoning the branches and falling to the ground. 

“You look good!” Jaskier said as he pulled back, hands still placed against the Witchers chest as he took him in. “New armor? About time!”

Geralt hummed quietly, following the bard as he welcomed him into his new home. It was as nice on the inside as he’d hoped for. Simple, wooden furniture, in decently sized rooms; graced with plush pillows (no doubt an addition from the bard himself). 

“Are you hungry? I was about to start making lunch.” 

“I could eat.” Geralt replied, watching fondly as his bard busied himself in the kitchen. “Do you need help?” 

“Not at all, dear Witcher. Sit! I’m sure you’ve had a long journey.” Jaskier turned to him, once again beaming at Geralt. “I’ll draw you a bath after food. I found those bath salts you enjoyed so much last time! Let me tell you, they aren’t easy to acquire, but of course I managed.” 

“Don’t have to spend your coin on that for me, little lark.” Geralt huffed, once again incredibly fond of the bard. He put effort into making Geralt comfortable, as much as was possible; Witchers were simply not cut out for cities. 

“Nonsense!” Jaskier quipped, turning back to his cooking. “You allow yourself so little luxury, Geralt, I simply _have_ _to_ make up for that when you visit.”

* * *

The rest of the day had been spent talking.

Jaskier prattling on about the day to day life at the academy, about students he liked, and students he thought were a drain on resources.

In turn, Geralt would tell him about what monsters he’d hunted, as detailed as he could manage. Jaskier still enjoyed writing songs about his adventures, even if he was no longer there with him. Songs of the white wolf still popular around the continent, even if they were sung by other bards. 

As evening fell, they’d sat before the hearth, sharing a bottle of wine. Silently enjoying each others company as the fire crackled in the background. Geralt ached to be closer, he always did, but Jaskier had not initiated, and he was loath to push the bard into anything. He accepted whatever he was given, and gladly.

“Geralt?” 

“Yes?” The Witchers gaze moved from the merry flames to the bards face, brows furrowing at his expression. Jaskier seemed- well, _nervous_. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that particular emotion grace the bards face. “What is it?”

Jaskier hesitated visibly, teeth worrying his lower lip for a moment, before he abruptly stood, crossing the distance between them and coming to a stop before Geralt.

Geralt, in turn, forced to tilt his head back to see the bards face, now set with a determined expression. 

His heart skipped a beat when suddenly, he was being straddled by the bard, his arms wrapping around the Witchers neck, the tips of their noses mere inches apart. 

_ Could this mean…? _

“You’ve been so patient with me, my wonderful, beautiful wolf. You’ve come _so far_.” Jaskier whispered, and oh, his _scent_. Geralt had never been able to get enough of it, had never found anything close to its equal; and now, it was somehow sweeter, _heavier_ , reminding the Witcher of the times they’d spent as-

“Are you sure?” He rasped, his voice unsteady, yet he couldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed. Two long, _long_ years he’d dreamed of this very moment. Had imagined it over and over, until he was sure he’d thought up every possible scenario. 

He hadn’t imagined this. 

It was better than anything he’d come up with.

It was  _perfect_ .

“I’m sure, Geralt. Gods, I’ve missed you, I’ve _missed you_ so much.” The bards breath playing along his skin, his lips, as he moved closer. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

“Weren’t ready.” Geralt grunted, only barely resisting in throwing words to the wind and simply kissing the bard senseless. “I was happy to wait, little lark.”

_ Happy to work on myself, to soften my edges, to be what you needed. _

The first kiss was a barely there touch of lips, for just a second; the most wondrous feeling spreading from the contact to settle in Geralts bones, into his very  _ soul _ . 

There was no holding back. Not after  _ years _ of longing.

Geralt grabbed hold of slim hips and crushed the bards body against his own.  He kissed his bard with everything he had, devoured him with teeth and lips and tongue, until Jaskier pulled back to breathe. 

Not one to waste an opportunity, Geralt focused his attention on the bards neck instead, pressing open mouthed kisses to the tender skin, setting his teeth against it now and again, never quite biting down; groaning when the action caused the bards scent to spike with arousal. 

“Bedroom, Geralt, we should- _ah, yes, bite me, mark me, Geralt_ -” Geralt growled, and did as had been requested, sinking his teeth into the bards lovely neck until he was certain bruises would blossom along the pale skin. Groaned as Jaskier squirmed in his lap, brushing against the witchers hardening cock. 

He never wanted to stop, couldn’t have if he  _did;_ his lark smelled too good, felt too good pressed up against him, squirming and panting, offering himself up to the white wolf. 

Fabric ripped in his eagerness to get to more skin, and if Jaskier had any objection, he did not complain. He arched his back instead, presenting his chest to Geralt eagerly, long fingers tangling in the Witchers hair and holding tight.

“Beautiful.” Geralt breathed, raking his eyes across every inch of flesh he’d revealed. “So beautiful, my little lark.” 

“Geralt, get- get _on_ with it already-” The bard whined, tugging at icy strands in his urgency, trembling with desire. “Please touch me, _please_ -”

And Geralt had never been able to deny his bard anything. 

Grabbing him by the back of his thighs, Geralt lifted the bard off his lap, only to move them onto the ground, laying the man down on the thick fur that laid before the hearth. Took a second to appreciate the sight and scent of his love, aroused and wanton, as the warm light of the fire danced across his skin.

“Gorgeous.” He breathed, roughened hands brushing along bare sides, thumb dipping under the fabric of woolen breeches, still asking, still needing _consent._ Instead of a verbal reply, patience obviously drawing thin, Jaskier quickly discarded the offending material; pulled off his breeches and smallclothes in a single, slightly clumsy, movement. 

Laid bare, vulnerable and ethereal, before the Witcher.

Whatever restraint Geralt had left, had desperately clung to, evaporated. He was on his bard within the fraction of a second, greedily taking in all he was being offered. Skimmed his hands and lips and tongue across every inch of skin; along his loves throat, chest, and belly, his long legs; going from open mouthed kisses to sinking in teeth to create more marks, more  _proof_ that his little lark was finally Geralts to hold and adore once more.

Jaskier, for his part, seemed just as desperate, just as  _needy_ . Moaning and mewling with every touch, squirming and arching beautifully into everything Geralt gave him, pretty cock hard and leaking. 

“Clothes, Geralt, off, _off-_ oh gods, _yes_ -”

Growling, Geralt pulled back, knees placed at the bards side, towering over him as he roughly divested himself of his shirt, and after some awkward maneuvering, so unlike a Witcher, of his breeches. Thanking the gods for his habit of forgoing smallclothes as he blanketed himself across the bard. 

They both moaned as their cocks brushed together, Jaskiers hips immediately rutting up against Geralts, delicate fingers digging into the witchers shoulders, hard enough to leave behind small, half-moon crescents. 

“Gods above, yes! Oh, _oh Geralt_.” Jaskier keened, legs wrapping around the Witchers hips. “Want you, _need you_ , please..”

“You’ll have me, sweet lark.” The Witcher growled, biting into the flesh of his bards shoulder, pulling forth another beautiful sound. “Take such good care of you, stuff you full of my cock, fill you with my seed so deep you’ll never get all of it out. Make you _mine_.” 

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier cried, as he spilled between them, hot, sticky come smearing between them. He breathed heavily, looking dazed as he blinked up at the Witcher, seeming almost surprised. The scent of his spend only serving to heighten Geralts lust, his burning _need_ to _mark, and claim and breed-_

“I- oh, I’m sorry, its been so long since-” Jaskier mewled, clearly embarrassed, only to be silenced by a kiss.

“Do you want to stop?” Simply asking the question cost Geralt every ounce of control held in his body, instinct urging him to continue, to _never fucking stop_. But his bard was only human, might require a rest. They could continue later, or tomorrow, no matter how hard he was, how much he _wanted_ -

“ _No!_ Don’t you _dare_ stop now, Geralt, or I’ll- I’ll fuck myself on my fingers until I’m crying-” 

Well. They couldn’t have that. 

Geralt grabbed the bards legs, pushed them upwards, growling his approval as Jaskier took hold himself, keeping himself spread of open, completely on display for him. His cock was softening, covered in the mess of his release, the soft furl of muscle twitching under Geralts gaze. 

“Going to take you apart, songbird.” He promised, leaning down to brush his lips against the bards cock, along its length, catching the barest hint of flavor, teasing them both for as long as he could. Which turned out was not long at all, for he simply could not deny himself what he had missed for so, so long. Lavishing his tongue along every stripe and spot of seed, greedy to coat his tongue in his bards spend, until there was none left for him to clean. 

They’d done much of this before, back in Kaer Morhen, when Jaskier had still been too fragile-  _No._ He refused to dwell on that now, when he finally had all he needed right before him. Now, he wanted to think of what they hadn’t done. 

Holding the squirming bard down by his hips, Geralt nosed along the bards balls, pressed a kiss to wrinkled skin, moving lower,  _lower_ \- Glanced up at the bard for permission. Jaskier, flushed and eager, panting heavily, stared at him with eyes wide. Took a moment to realize what Geralt was asking.

“Oh. _Oh gods_ , yes, _yes_ , do it, Geralt _please!_ ”

Wasting no time, Geralt pressed an open mouthed, sloppy kiss against the bards entrance, groaning as the taste and scent of his Jaskier, his  _mate_ . The bards natural musk coming together seamlessly with his arousal, his desire, his  _love_ . If Geralt was struck down in this moment, he’d die a happy man.

Mouthing greedi ly, he feasted on sensitive skin, going from lapping across it to pointing his tongue, swirling around it, desperate for  _more, more, more_ . His bard was in no better state, his spent cock slowly growing hard once more as he moaned and whined, knuckles turning white as he help himself open for Geralt to devour. Babbling nonsense between his sounds of passion, broken pleads of “ _More_ ” and “ _please_ ” and “ _inside me_ ” barely loud enough for even the Witcher to hear. 

P ushing his tongue into the bard as far as possible, Geralt was sure he now understand the meaning of true bliss, loosening his hold just enough to allow his lark to ride his tongue in sharp, jerking motions; groans muffled against the bards skin, his own cock throbbing painfully. He wouldn’t last much longer, not with Jaskier being so utterly, ridiculously  _perfect_ . He pulled back, cutting off the bards whine of protest with a kiss to his red, bitten lips. 

“Need oil.” He growled out. “Not going to hurt you, my lark, my sweet bard.” 

“K-Kitchen.” Jaskier replied weakly, arching against Geralt, still holding himself open for the witcher like a bitch in heat. “Olive oil, its closest, gods Geralt, _fucking hurry up!_ ”

Had it been anyone else, Geralt would have snorted at their eagerness, and insisted they use proper oil. Had it been anyone else, he’d have enough wits left about him to move this to the bed.

But it was Jaskier,  _his bard_ ; that robbed him of anything resembling sense and reason. 

“Don’t. Move.” He commanded, rising onto his feet as quickly as witcherly possible, bee lining to the kitchen; throwing open cabinets and shoving their contents aside with such single minded force, he was sure to be repairing the damage caused the next day. When he finally found what he needed, he returned, only to find his bard writhing on his own finger.

“Took too- _ah ah_ \- too long.” Jaskier offered when Geralt growled, quickly settling between the bards legs, still obscenely spread, pulling the bards hand from his pink little hole.

“ _Mine_.” Geralt snarled, opening the oil, messily dripping it between the bards cheek, no doubt using much more than was necessary. Jaskier didn’t complain, simply nodded frantically, once more taking hold of his legs as if he could spread them any wider. 

Calloused fingers rubbed against tender skin, teasing for just a second, for as long as Geralt could possibly manage, before easing inside with a single finger. Jaskier moaned, long and low, head thrown back; an offer too enticing to ignore. He sank his teeth into the bards neck, another mark, another  _claim_ on pale skin. 

“So fucking _tight_.” He grunted, his finger almost strangled by eager muscle clutching it, pulling it _deeper_. “Going to have you spread out on my cock, little lark, _ruin you_ for anyone else; you’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. Begging me every night to fill you _just right_.”

“Yes, yes, _no one else_ , not ever, only you, my Geralt, _my wolf!_ _Please,_ give me _more_ , I can take it, I can, _please!_ ” 

“Be patient. Not going to hurt you.” Another bite, another mark, as Geralt eased his finger back, pushed it back in, willing the twitching muscle to ease, to _relax_. “Breathe, songbird. If you don’t _relax_ , I won’t _fuck_ you.”

Just the thought of  _not_ burying his cock into that wet heat was agony, but Geralt would stay true to his word. If his lark didn’t relax, if they couldn’t go through with it today, they’d have to simply try again. And again,  _and again,_ until he could open his bard up enough to take his cock safely. 

Jaskier wailed, throwing his hands over his head, gripping the fur tightly. 

“No, _no_ , I’ll be _good_ , I’ll relax, _don’t stop_.” A few deep breaths seemingly doing the trick, as the pressure around Geralts fingers eased, allowing him to thrust inside with ease.

“That’s it.” He praised, his voice rough and low, nipping at the bards ear. “My good lark, my sweet little bird. Being _so good_ for me.”

A second finger soon joined the first, stretching the bard further, pulling moan after moan from the bards lips, each second wearing down Geralts restraint. It wasn’t enough, not yet, his lark wasn’t ready, no matter how prettily he begged with words and body. 

“Feel this.” Geralt finally growled, taking hold of the bards hand as he leaned over him, pressing it to his cock, hard enough to pound fucking nails by now; hissing as calloused fingertips brushed across it. “ _This_ is going to be inside you, little lark. You’re going to take every. Single. Inch. But only if you’re _ready_.”

S obbing, Jaskier nodded, curling his fingers around the throbbing length, already slick with the Witchers need, tugging on it helplessly. Geralt groaned, eyes falling shut, hips bucking into the bards fist. Gods, it felt better than  _anything_ he’d felt before, his larks talented fingers clumsy with need, and oh, he could come like this. Shoot his seed onto the bards hand, his stomach and chest. Get him off with his fingers deep within, and collapse atop him right after. 

If not for the burning, _searing need_ to bury himself in the bards body, as far as he could go, deeper than any other before him. Show his bard exactly why he’d never find satisfaction from another ever again.

“Enough.” He grunted, pushing the bards hand off his cock, allowing himself a few moments to breathe, to calm and pull back from the edge. “Going to come soon enough, lark. And when I do, its going to _inside you_. Nowhere else.” 

“Yes, yes yes, _please_ -” Jaskier groaned, once more taking hold of the fur above his head, writhing, covered in a thin layer of sweat. “Stop- Stop _talking_ about it and _fucking do it!_ ”

Spurred on, Geralt added more oil to his fingers, scissoring them apart, only to add a third, and when he was satisfied with the stretch, a  _fourth._ Jaskier wailing at this point, his cock flushed an angry red, twitching against his stomach; smearing against the puddle of seed he’d dripped onto it. Geralt itched to lick it off, but that could wait,  _had to wait_ . 

His bard was finally ready.

“Jaskier.” He needed to hear it one more time, needed to know that this was what his songbird wanted, _really wanted_. If they did this, he’d never be able to let him go again. He’d be his, _Geralts_ , and he’d kill whoever tried to pry the bard from his side. “ _Jaskier_.”

The bards eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide with desire, only the smallest sliver of blue left behind. Tears stuck to the long, dark lashes that framed those beautiful eyes.

“.. _I love you_. Please.” Jaskier breathed, bringing his palms to rest against the Witchers cheeks. “Please. Make me _yours_.”

And Geralt, ever hopeless in denying his bard, obliged. Oiled his cock as quickly as he could manage, groaning at the friction on his neglected cock, so turned on he could barely see straight. Somehow, he still managed to be gentle as he pressed inside the bards body, only his tip at first. 

“So. Fucking. Tight. _Fuck!_ ” He cursed, rocking his hips forward, taking as much care as his lust addled mind allowed, until finally, thankfully, _completely_ settling inside. 

“Oh gods, oh _gods_ , so _big_ , Geralt, _Geralt!_ ” The bard sobbed, nails digging into the Witchers shoulders with such force he surely drew blood. “Fuck me, _fuck me,_ now now _now_ -” 

And so Geralt did. Started off with slow, even thrusts, seeking out an angle that made the bard scream, made him clench down on his cock until it  _almost hurt_ ; the most pleasurable pain Geralt had ever experienced. 

“ _Harder_ , fuck me like you _mean it!”_

Growling, Geralt grabbed the bards legs, pushed them up, up,  _up_ , until they were hooked over his shoulders, allowing him to reach deeper, to fuck  _harder_ , just as his lark requested. Had he been able to think clearly, perhaps he’d worried about the complaints they’d no doubt get from the neighbors come morning; as it was, his mind was filled with nothing but  _Jaskier_ . His scent, his eyes, his voice, the warm, slick channel he was pounding into. 

Satisfied his lark was no longer capable of words, simply holding on as Geralt bent him almost in half, fucking his deep and hard. Barreling towards his peak much sooner than he usually did, much sooner than he  _wanted_ . But oh, Jaskier felt so  _good_ , gripped his cock so tightly within, greedy for more, for everything Geralt had to offer. How could he possibly resist?

“Gonna come.” He grunted out, sweat beading along his brown and temple, snapping his hips with perhaps more force than he _should,_ though the bard gave no indication that he was in pain. “Going to paint you white from the inside, _claim you_ , fill you til you’re _leaking, til your stomach swells with it-”_

With a howl, so loud he was sure all of Oxenfurt could hear it, Jaskier came. Came _so hard_ his seed splashed across his chest, all the way up to his chin. Muscles clamping down on Geralt so hard the Witcher saw white,  _roaring_ his own climax into the night.  Filling his bard just as he’d promised, hips twitching with every pulse of his cock. 

They both shook, from the intensity, from feeling so much all at once, chests heaving with every desperate breath. Geralt, refusing to pull out just yet, lowered himself onto the smaller body, using his forearms to hold himself up, as not to squish the bard below him.

“I love you.” He breathed, resting his forehead against Jaskiers, inhaling his scent as deeply as he could; burning it into his brain, into every part of himself. “I love you, sweet lark.”

“I love you too. Now, and always.” 


End file.
